


Let the Old Ways Die

by opal_bullets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Drinking, Farmer/Beekeeper Castiel, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Use of Weed (not Dean or Cas), Musician Dean Winchester, Musician Sam Winchester, Past Drug Addiction, Suspicious to friends to lovers?, deancastropefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-04 22:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18822448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_bullets/pseuds/opal_bullets
Summary: After being fired from his job as a record exec, a stint in rehab, and years of wandering, Cas has settled in small town, South Dakota to help Cain take care of his bees. To his surprise former rock star Sam Winchester also lives there: but he finds himself content to ignore, and be ignored. Until one day Sam breaks the unspoken truce, and convinces Cas to join him for a drink at the Roadhouse. When Cas gets there he finds out Sam has an ulterior motive: he wants to enlist Cas's help in convincing his brother Dean that he still has a chance at the music career he never got. And after seeing Dean play, Cas can't help but get drawn in.ABegin AgainandA Star is Borndouble movie fusion AU.





	1. Far Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods for another wonderful round of the always delightful tropefest!
> 
> And many, many thanks to Dreym, who is a spectacular artist at any time, but truly proved her talent when, despite life happening to her seemingly all at once, she produced three great pieces for my fic. [Look upon her masterpost in awe and leave her all the love](https://dreymart.tumblr.com/post/184856254339/the-illustrations-for-let-the-old-ways-die-by)!
> 
> Finally, I have added links for suggested listening at the end of each chapter. All links are youtube links, and specifically to videos that are more or less still images so you don't have to be distracted by videos, surprised by flashing etc., or misled by unvetted lyrics--unless otherwise noted. So turn up the volume and enjoy ^_^

When the South Dakota bluster turned into a driving rain, the farmer’s market had no choice but to pack up. The food stands doused their flames and packed up their skillets and hotplates, taking the smells of stir fry, tomatillos, and barbecue with them. The jewelry stands snapped their cases shut and the little book cart from the local library hurriedly protected their books. It was easy enough for Cas to put all the jars full of honey from CC’s Bees back into the bins, more to protect the labels than anything. Ink was expensive. He had plenty of time, then, to run over to help Nora pack up all her little homemade trinkets while she made sure her baby was good and bundled up.

“Thanks, Cas,” she said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He loaded the last of her crates into the trunk of her car parked behind the stand as she buckled her kid into the car. With a quick hug and kiss to his damp cheek Nora was off, along with most of his other neighbors. He realized in that moment, rain running down his neck and inside his jacket, that with Cain in the hospital after Colette took a turn for the worse the night before, it was actually going to take a lot longer to take his stand down and get everything loaded into his pickup.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Nothing doing. He rolled up his sleeves—metaphorically, he didn’t actually want to get sick—and opened the bed of his truck. After he loaded all the boxes of honey, soaps, and candles, and went back for the table. It was one of those industrial tables you find everywhere, with metal legs that folded in, but when he tipped it over to knock in the joints, they wouldn’t go. The anger that rose within him was sudden, but when years ago he would have lashed out, now he took a deep breath, let the cool air soothe him, imagined the rain washing his ire away, and directed that energy back toward the table. Once, twice, and again he pressed his boot the joint, and with a protesting shriek it finally gave. Cas sighed, part relief, part letting go, letting go. He gripped the long edge of the table and listened to the rain drumming onto the stand’s tarp roof.

“Hey, need some help?”

Cas lifted his head up, _way_ up, to see Sam Winchester. He was wearing a light jacket, orange, and it had no hood. The rain had easily soaked through his long hair, today back in a small ponytail, his short beard turned darker. He was holding a canvas bag with something leafy and green spilling out the top. He’d clearly been one of the few people to brave the market that early spring day.

“That’s kind, but I can’t ask you to do that.” And Cas had other reasons to not want Sam around, nice as he seemed to be.

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’m offering.” Without waiting for even a nod, as if recognizing the stubborn bastard Cas could admit he often was, Sam just steamrolled right past, tucking his bag beneath the awning, and with only the slightest of grunts, got the other table joint to go. “I’ll get this in the truck,” he said, lifting the table. His arms were long enough he could actually heft it into one of his armpits, guiding the front by curling his other hand on its bottom corner.

After the life Cas has led, he’s learned how to pick his battles. He started untying the awning, and then Sam was there just in time so that the free corners didn’t flap too hard, or pull from Cas’s grasp altogether. As a team they made short work of it, and in fact Sam was so handy with the poles and frame that it hardly took more time than if Cain has been there to help himself.

“Done this before?” he asked.

Sam smiled, teeth flashing white against his beard. “Did a lot of camping with my brother growing up, among other things.”

Cas did not let on that he could guess that _other things_ probably included setting up tents and stages and all around acting as his own roadie. Instead he said, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Sam answered. He retrieved his bag, now sheltering next to Cas’s truck, and slung it over his shoulder, for all the world acting like it would take a little more than heavy rain and wind to dampen his determination. Cas didn’t doubt it. He knew Sam had been through a lot himself, and it warmed Cas to see evidence of his having come out the other side strong and, if his weekly visits to the market were any indication, happy.

Speaking of which, “Let me give you something,” Cas said.

“I don’t need anything,” Sam protested.

Cas ignored him, pulling the correct jar from the bins. He wrapped his large hand around the front of the label, so that the rain wouldn’t wash the ink away. “For your wife, then,” said Cas. Of course, seeing as they’d only ever interacted as business transactions for honey and soap Sam had never actually told him the woman who often accompanied him to the market was his wife, but Cas had noticed the rings and looked it up on Sam’s Wikipedia page later. All it had said is that her name was Eileen Leahy, and they had no children.

Sam took the jar and held one of his hands over it to shield it from the rain. “Her favorite,” he said. He was smiling again, but it was warmer, more deeply felt, and not meant for Cas. He busied himself with securing the truck bed cover over all the goods and equipment. When he turned back around Sam’s smile was smile changed, honest and grateful. Sam tucked the jar deep into his bag. “Thanks, Castiel,” he said, and a shiver ran down Cas’s spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

He must have frozen, because Sam’s smile turned rueful. “Yeah, I know who you are. And I know you know who I am, too.”

Cas buried his hands in his jacket pockets and sighed. “All this time?”

“Pretty much right away, yeah.” They regarded each other for a moment. A distant flash of lightning; a count of two, then a low rumble of thunder. The last of the trucks took off, people shouting goodbye to one another over the wind. Sam cocked his head to watch them go, then turned back to Cas. “Look, I’ve always appreciated that you never made a big deal of it, because I like to keep all of that separate from my home life, but I could use a talk with someone in the business tonight. You got an hour, or does this stuff need to get somewhere right away?”

The protest that he was no longer in the music business died on his lips, as the question registered. What in the world would an internationally famous musician in early retirement want with a washed up record exec like himself? The stuff really didn’t need to get anywhere right away, and he couldn’t deny that his curiosity was growing bigger than his caution. “I’ve got an hour.”

“Cool. Let’s get a drink at The Roadhouse. You know it?”

Cas shook his head.

“It’s a little out of town. You can follow me there, I’m in the silver Prius. Okay?

Cas blinked the rain out of his eyes, uncertain whether he was dreaming. “Okay.” He watched for a moment as Sam jogged back to his car, parked down the block, before hopping into his cab. The windshield started fogging as soon as he shut the door, so he turned on the defrost and the wipers and eased the truck in the direction Sam had headed. Though the clouds were thick and the rain heavy, it was only about 3pm and it wasn’t terribly dark. He caught sight of the silver Prius, and Sam even gave a short honk and waved just in case.

Sam took a road going west out of town, and after about ten minutes of driving outside city limits, Cas could see some old neon lights flickering dimly just off the road. The parking lot was sparsely filled, but not completely abandoned. If the place served food it was between meals, and if it was primarily a watering hole, as Sam’s invitation seemed to imply, it was far too early for the night crowd. Just as well. Cas had lost his taste for parties and large groups of drunk people.

Sam parked near the front door and Cas parked with a space left between them. He hopped down from his truck and joined Sam where he was waiting for him. “Welcome to The Roadhouse,” he said, opening the thick wooden door. When Cas stepped in, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. It seemed the proprietors hadn’t bothered adjusting the lighting to the dimmer day outside, the brightest lights coming from neon beer signs, and old lightbulbs beneath green shades that hung over the booths. Opposite from the booths was a long bar, between them some small tables, and the back was a rec area with pool tables. Sam led him to a table closer to the front door, and took the seat facing the bar. He swept his wet jacket from his shoulders to hang over the back of his chair, and Cas followed suit. Sam reached back and pulled the tie from his wet hair. He shook it out then ran a hand through it, and to Cas’s bemusement his locks—longer than he’d ever worn it during his touring days—fell perfectly into place, framing his strong jaw and bouncing lightly onto his shoulders. Some people just had _it_.

“Are you okay with alcohol?” Sam asked.

Cas raised an eyebrow, wondering if Sam’s stint in rehab made him more sensitive to others’ preferences, or if he knew anything of Cas’s own history. “It’s fine.”

Sam smiled. “Great. You’ll love these. Ellen!” he called, lifting a hand. “Two Dark Toddies!” Cas looked over his shoulder to see a woman waving before disappearing into the back, what he assumed was the kitchen. When he turned back around Sam was rubbing his hands together. “Ellen owns the place. She runs it with her daughter Jo.”

Cas pulled up the dregs of his small talk ability, long atrophied after spending two years working for various farmers and beekeepers in the region. “You know them well?”

“Yeah, family friends. Known them since we were kids, actually.”

“We?”

“Me and my brother, Dean.”

“You grew up around here? I seem to remember the mythos around you saying you grew up on the road.”

Sam folded his arms onto the table and bobbed his head. “Yes and no. Whenever we spent a length of time in one place it was here. That’s why when I wanted to make a new start I came back. Doesn’t really answer why you’re here, though.”

The question was casual, but his eyes were still sharp, even half in shadow. Cas didn’t let it bother him; he had no reason to lie. “I like bees.”

Sam’s forehead wrinkled, clearly running the phrase through his head again. “Because you like bees?”

“Two Dark Toddies.” A middle-aged woman with long brown hair set down a copper mug for each of them. There was a dark liquid inside and a slice of orange floating on top. Then the woman put her hands on her hips, plaid button up open and sleeves rolled up past the elbow, and turned intelligent eyes onto Cas. It wasn’t quite unfriendly, but not really friendly either. Reserving judgment, that’s what it was. Protectiveness. Cas had almost forgotten what that looked like. “Who’s your friend, Sam?”

“This is Castiel. He helps the Mullens out with CC’s Bees.”

Ellen softened slightly. “They’re good people. How’s Colette?”

Knowing the Mullens were private people, and it wasn’t really the place, Cas tread lightly. “In a rough patch.”

She softened further, nodding. “Well, tell them hey for me, would you? Castiel, was it? The name’s Ellen.” She stuck out her hand.

Cas took it easily, his handshake honed from years of pissing matches and deal striking. Her own was strong, her hands calloused. “Cas, please. Castiel is such a mouthful.” _Castiel is a stuck up music mogul from a family of unfeeling pricks who put young artists through the machine until they come out perfectly packaged on the outside and mangled on the inside, all beyond recognition_.

“All right, Cas,” she said. “You boys behave, now. Let me know if you need refills.”

After giving their thanks, Ellen went off to check on a man in a trucker hat tucked into a booth, and Sam lifted his mug and inhaled deeply. He nodded towards Cas’s drink. “Go on, you’ll love it.”

Just from wrapping his hands around the copper mug, hot to the touch, a shiver ran through Cas, reminding him all at once how wet and cold he was. The Dark Toddy smelled amazing, and somewhat familiar, too. Rich and fragrant with spices. He blew on the steam curling up from around the orange slice, and took a sip. As it slid down his throat the warmth spread and branched from head to toe, immediately making him cozy. “This is mulled wine.”

Sam chuckled at him over his mug. “Yep. If she called it that none of the usual clientele would order it. You like?”

“I’ve been to ski lodges from Canada to Switzerland and at this moment I can’t think of a single place that’s made it better.” He swallowed more, savoring the fruits and herbs, expertly mixed. “This makes me very happy.”

Sam brightened. “I know, right? Used to go to Aspen a lot and none of the fancy places were as good as Ellen’s recipe.” He stared down at his drink, smile fading, fingers tapping nervously. “Don’t think about those times a lot anymore.” He took a longer slug and pasted a smile back on. “We were talking about bees?”

“Yes. The Dakotas have the biggest honey agriculture in the country. I thought I’d maybe want to learn. So I drifted around until I fell in with the Mullens, who needed the help for…a longer term.”

Thankfully Sam took it at face value and didn’t require an explanation of why he might want to get as far as he possibly could from the life he’d been born into. Maybe he understood, because he next question was, “After rehab?” His face was dark, serious.

Cas considered his angle. They didn’t know each other except by reputation: Sam was a rock star whose meteoric rise to fame was accompanied by an equally spectacular crash; Cas, he was sure, was known only as the unfeeling and cutthroat exec for Garrison Records that created one of the greatest music empires, and then just as quickly was never heard from again. It’s possible that Sam’s intent this afternoon was to beg Cas for favors. Could be that he wanted Cas off his turf. Needed some kind of insider information. Wanted to take out on him what was no doubt meted out upon Sam by his own record company, Hellfire.

But looking at Sam, his wedding ring that reflected the dim light in the bar, the protective look in Ellen’s eyes…the kindness he’d shown in helping Cas pack up, with an ease that spoke of familiarity to hard work. Cas simply could not believe he had any ill intent. It was just as likely that, all these years later—especially if he’d broken ties with everyone from the industry as rumor had it—he was merely looking for a little camaraderie. “I went for a stretch. A year or so after you left the scene.”

Sam nodded, the darkness of his demeanor tempered by a deep understanding. “Heroin, for me.”

“Pills. All kinds.”

Sam whistled and lifted his mug. “To sobriety.” Cas tapped it with his own, and they both drank another bracing swallow. Sam cleared his throat. “I used to wonder sometimes if things would’ve been different if I’d signed with Garrison instead. But if your experience was typical…” He lifted his eyes, waiting.

Cas shook his head. “Naomi ran Garrison no better than Azazel did Hellfire, in the end. Still does, I imagine. The employees who weren’t the signed acts had just as much trouble with staying in line, and getting results.”

“How to look, what to say to the press?”

“Some of that.” There was half a cymbal crash, a hit instrument quickly stilled, and they both lifted their heads to look in the back of the bar. A man with a mullet and wearing a red flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off was messing about with putting together a drumkit on a small raised dais that Cas hadn’t noticed before. He looked back at Sam. “I told myself it was that. But what I really couldn’t admit was that following the company line meant ruining people’s lives. It wasn’t until a young girl named Claire came under my wing that I finally faced up to what I was doing to her, and myself.”

“What happened to her?” No judgment was in his voice, only—at least it seemed—genuine care.

“She was only twelve. I was able to go through her parents, coaching them how to get her out of her contract. Garrison figured it out anyway. They cast me out.”

At this, Sam was surprised. “But…you were considered one of the best in the business. They said you could scout talent from three beers down and 50 rows back.”

“Humanity wasn’t required to do that,” Cas answered. “Loyalty only. Besides, they’re doing alright for themselves without me.”

“I suppose.” Sam drank some more wine and ran his hand through his hair and tousling it, separating the wet strands. Then he tossed out a sudden grin. “Kinda happy that Hellfire crashed and burned, not gonna lie.”

“The world’s better without it.”

Sam snorted. “Music’s better without it.”

Cas titled his head noncommittally. He didn’t quite want to let on just how much he still paid attention to the music scene. “This might be forward,” he said, steering around the subject. “But I want to tell you how glad I am to see you well. It’s why I never said anything all this time, you realize? I thought maybe you’d come out here to not be reminded of your previous life.”

Sam smiled, not a little sad. “I used to think of it as a previous life. Something I could leave behind. It’s been several years and what I’ve learned in this time, surrounding myself with real friends—family, really—is that there’s no dying and being reborn again. No killing off that demonic persona and creating a new life. You have to rebuild from what’s already there.” He shrugged. “To not let it control me, I have to acknowledge it, _know_ it.”

Cas tapped a finger against his mug. He stared at the orange, purpling with every moment, then lifted his brow. “It comes down to music, I suppose.” He looked up at Sam then, gauging.

Sam laughed a bit, and leaned back in his chair, one of his long legs sticking out from the side of their table. “Yeah, pretty much. Couldn’t go more than a couple of years without touching a guitar. My brother called me one stubborn son of a bitch.” He didn’t seem put out by it; his smile melted into a mix of exasperation and fondness that only family could elicit. “Runs in the family, so I guess he knows.”

There was the unmistakable _tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh_ of drumsticks tapping a snare, the deep _thump-thump-thump_ of a foot pounding a bass pedal. The mulleted man had set up the drums, and was very clearly going through a sound check. Cas got a slight sense of foreboding, along with a frisson of excitement. “Is there going to be a show?”

“In about an hour.”

“You’re playing?”

“No.” When Cas gave him a look of disbelief, Sam spread his arms, all _what can you do?_ “My anonymity works for me here, but it works on polite fiction. If I started performing every weekend, word would get out.”

“Is that so bad?” asked Cas. “Seems to me you breached the contract by speaking to me, when you had no reason to think I wouldn’t turn right around and tell someone who might pay quite a bit for that information.”

“You think I didn’t sniff around first?” Sam leaned in again, elbows on the table, large hands engulfing his drink. His hair fell forward, half-covering his face. “You think I haven’t known the Mullens, Nora, everyone else in this town far longer than you?”

 _Ah_ , thought Cas. _A man who has been to hell and back, and won_ _’t be caught out again_. “I don’t know what they’ve said,” he answered. “And I respect that this is your home. But despite the fact it’s been only a few months…it’s the first place I’ve felt like settling in to in…years.”

Slowly, Sam sat up again, the lines of his body softening back into the helpful customer who offered him a hand at the farmer’s market. Affable, unassuming despite his size. Of course, now that Cas knew better, he could see the hidden strength, both physical, and the kind that people carry who have figured out much of who they are. “I’d never have approached you if they hadn’t been singing your praises, Cas. You’ve got nothing to fear from me, unless you give me reason.” He finished off his mug. “Need a refill? Better drink what you can now, once the weather gets warm she’ll retire it ‘til fall.”

Cas nodded, and Sam waved to Ellen behind the bar. No one else had come into the place even since they’d been sitting here, but another man had shown up at the back, and was plucking at a bass guitar while Mullet was crouching next to an amp, fiddling with plugs and dials. The moment it turned on, the deep vibrations filled the room, the kind that plucked at your heart behind the ribs, so you could feel it.

“This ain’t a damn concert hall!” hollered Ellen, over her shoulder, where she’d come to refill their mugs. It was a copper pitcher, clearly meant only for such refills and not where the wine would be kept for any length of time. No doubt it was bubbling away on the stove in the back somewhere.

Mullet waved and turned down the amp, and when the other man—tall, green flannel—played another bass line, it was loud, but not punishingly so.

It was good enough, evidently, because Ellen filled their cups, gave Sam a soft smile, and headed back behind the bar.

When the bass line came again, Cas sat up straight. “I know that line…”

Sam raised an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth curling.

Cas snapped his fingers. “Staind. ‘Mudshovel’.”

“So you do like rock.”

It was Cas’s turn to be surprised. “Of course. It was my job to know all the popular kinds of music. And the unpopular ones too, in case the pendulum started swinging the other way.”

The bassist stopped playing and set down the instrument. He and Mullet exchanged some words, too far back for Cas to hear, but light sounding nevertheless.

“Were you already scouting, back before I made it big? You can’t be that much older than me—”

Cas snorted.

For the first time, Sam looked awkward. “Or, you can?”

“I’m several years your senior, Mr. Winchester, but yes, I was scouting in the nineties, as a teenager. The label was my family, in a way.”

Sam grimaced. “Speaking of family, please, just call me Sam. Mr. Winchester sounds like my dad.”

Cas nodded in acknowledgment. Then he said, “I suppose I made my name in pop music, but I cut my teeth on rock. It was the most exciting genre at the time, in the early to mid-nineties especially…excepting rap, perhaps. Grunge, alternative, nu-metal. I survived a lot of mosh pits.”

“I bet,” Sam grinned. “I was in a few myself. Much younger than I should have been, but you know.”

“Had to get your start somewhere.”

“Pretty sure it started long before that.” Sam stared into his mug, but didn’t drink. Mullet plugged in another amp, and the tall man strummed a chord or two on an electric guitar. Sam glanced up at him, then back at Cas. “I really don’t want to relinquish my anonymity. Not yet, anyway. But soon…maybe. On my own terms.”

“I’m not sure how you think I can help. You didn’t keep any contacts?”

“Not one,” he answered darkly.

“And you think I have? I’m in the same place you are.”

“I think whether you keep in contact or not is irrelevant in the digital age. I just think you’d know best who to approach.”

“For what?”

Just then the front door burst open, and a gorgeous woman with a leather jacket and dark curly hair strode in. There was purpose in her strides that made her almost impossible to look away from as she passed their table. “Hey, Sam,” she said, squeezing his shoulder as she breezed by.

“Billie.” He smiled up at her, but she didn’t pause on her way to the back of the room, where one last guitar was getting tuned and checked.

Seemed Sam really did know everyone, which gave Cas an idea. “You want me to stay for the show.”

“Nah,” said Sam. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good show. But stay or don’t.”

Cas sighed. “Who do you want me to approach?”

“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. I didn’t actually want to talk business today,” said Sam. He paused. “It’s good to see you’re doing well for yourself too, you know. I only really knew of you, but…there’s been too much loss. When I look back on the scene, then…”

“I understand,” said Cas, and he did. Some artists fell into obscurity because they fell out of love with the life. Others because they fell into rehab, like Sam. And then there were the unlucky ones. There were just as many adjacent to the industry that suffered the same fate.

They silently drank to their own private toasts. The wind blew outside, splattering the rain against the windows.

The bar was suddenly filled with noise as four instruments banged and strummed. Cas saw that a fourth person had joined the others, a petite woman with blonde hair. Mullet was on the drums, Billie on bass, and the new woman and the tall man both had guitars. All had microphones, though they were just making random noises and saying random words into them.

Cas looked around. “No one’s here for the show.”

Sam checked his watch. “Not for another twenty minutes, probably.”

The band’s noise petered off. “Any requests?” Billie asked into her mic. The tone seemed rhetorical—aside from Ellen and the man in the hat, no one else was there to answer—but there was empty air, and Sam took it.

“Candlebox!” he shouted.

Billie adjusted her bass and looked at her bandmates, or more particularly the man with the guitar, who shrugged. The space for the band to play was small, so their two mics were toward the front, and the blonde’s was set further back, closer to the drums, there likely only for backing vocals.

After another moment’s conference between the musicians, the tall man adjusted his plain-looking guitar in the bar’s dim light, and strummed a short intro. A very familiar one: for Candlebox’s “Far Behind.” The man shifted his stance just enough for Cas to know he was going to take lead vocals, just before he did. “Now maybe,” he sang. “I didn’t mean to treat you bad…but I did it anyway.” The drums kicked in and pulled the song forward, but Cas didn’t notice, still stuck on the voice, a bit deeper than the original song, rougher, but absolutely full of feeling.

He also didn’t notice that Sam was watching him, not the band.

“And now maybe,” the man continued, “some would say your life was sad. But you lived it anyway.”

His voice was rich with knowledge, heavy with experience, but light in delivery: a matter-of-factness that let the listener know it was undeniable, indisputable. Cas turned in his chair, wine forgotten, cold forgotten, and faced the makeshift stage fully. It was the easiest thing in the world to fall back into that scouting headspace, though it was something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Something burning like lightning. Something like fate.

And still, the man sang: “But you left me far behind…”

As the band flew into the chorus, Cas held his breath.

“NOW MAY-EE-AY-EE-AY-BE,” the man yelled, and Cas was lost. Yelling was one of the absolutely hardest things to do well, that rock’n’roll sweet spot somewhere between a belt and a scream, and this man, this man in the middle of nowhere South Dakota had the most beautiful yell that Cas had ever heard.

Cas listened to him as he let the yell fall away, quite naturally, until he slid seamlessly into the second verse, a deep well of emotion expertly leashed. Then he raised his voice again, shouting out the chorus, until he ripped himself open and burst into the guitar solo. And even though it was dim and Cas couldn’t make out his face, he could read his body language perfectly well, see how he wasn’t at all performing. Wasn’t self-conscious. Was just playing good music with his bandmates, feeling the emotions, letting them through, giving them voice. Letting them go. He leaned back at the high notes, hips cradling his guitar, bowlegs bent as he swayed back and forth, the amps filling the room, the music saying what needed to be said.

And even though Cas had heard the song countless times before, had in fact seen Candlebox play it live back in their heyday, he startled when the man threw himself at the mic again, yelling “NO, NO!”, his plaintive cries dragging the band at last back into the last iteration of the chorus until the denouement, the crashing cymbals, the man’s last, tired notes “You left me far behind…”

…brought the bar to silence.

No one clapped, though the band didn’t seem to expect it; they turned to each other and were probably discussing the set up, if how Mullet jumped up from the drums to fiddle with the equipment was anything to go by, but…Cas didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He swallowed on a dry throat once, twice. Remembered his copper mug, cooler now, and downed half its contents without taking his eyes off the milling musicians. “Who was that?” he croaked out.

“Who was who?”

Finally Cas whipped his head around to Sam, whose tone had been entirely too smug to be found innocent. Indeed, he was giving Cas a hell of a shit-eating grin. “The frontman.”

“My brother. Dean.”

“Your brother?”

And out of the depths of his drug-addled years he remembered more of the Sam Winchester mythos, that he’d gotten his start touring around with his brother as a double act, before Sam had set off on his own. This was a couple years before he’d started gaining any real following. But…if he’d stayed in the industry as well as Sam, there was no possible way that no one would have taken notice.

Sam seemed to note his line of thought. “You might have heard of his old band, though they never got signed. The Vampirates?”

“Jesus,” exhaled Cas. He’d not only heard of them, but he’d seen them live. Had tried convincing Garrison to court them with their rock imprint, but by the time he’d gained any traction the band had self-destructed. The only bandmember whose name still had any weight in the music world was Gordon Walker, whose infamous demise served as both legend and cautionary tale to everyone who’d been in the business at the time. There were a couple other people…Cas thought he might remember a Lafayette—Lafitte?—who’d nearly shared Walker’s fate. If Sam’s brother, Dean, had gone through anything similar…well, it was no wonder he’d joined his younger sibling in exile.

He looked back at Dean, who’d set his guitar in its stand, along with the two women and their own instruments, and laughed at something the blonde said. Walker had been the lead vocalist for The Vampirates. Cas couldn’t remember ever hearing Dean even do back up vocals, had only been the rhythm guitarist. What had he been doing out of the spotlight? No wonder Cas hadn’t recognized him, or his playing.

As he watched, Dean said something and then turned his head, maybe to look for Sam, but then froze, probably at seeing someone in his company. Cas did not hide that he was studying the man as he approached, kicking in an errant chair and shoving a table slightly back into place on his way, until he stood in front of their table. Up close Cas could see he had full lips, a couple day’s worth of stubble, and in the dim light his eyes shown somewhere between green and gold.

“Sammy,” he said. His speaking voice was as rough and lovely as his singing voice promised.

“Hey, Dean,” said Sam, turning that same grin on his brother.

“Who’s this?” he asked, clearly not a man to beat around the bush.

“This is Cast—”

“Just Cas,” he interrupted, holding out a hand. “I work with the Mullens at CC’s Bees.”

“Dean.” He only hesitated a moment before accepting the shake, his hand covered in tell-tale guitarist callouses. “How’s Colette?”

“A bit of a rough patch,” he said again.

Dean clicked his tongue. “Sorry to hear that. They’re good people.”

“Dean!” waved the blonde, now standing halfway into the bar’s back room.

“A minute, Jo!” he called back. “Well,” he said to Cas. Dean held his eyes, just long enough for Cas to wonder. “You staying for the show?”

As if Cas could get up and leave now—though he should. He really, really should. “Of course.”

Dean nodded. “See you after, Sammy?”

“Yep. I’ll get us some beers.”

“Awesome. Later, bitch.” This last was thrown over his shoulder, as he went to follow Jo into the back.

“Jerk,” Sam called after, and laughed. He turned his gaze onto Cas, then, eye brights and puppy-like in excitement. “Well?”

“You know very well,” said Cas. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I wanted to see your reaction.”

“To Dean?”

“I told you I did my research,” said Sam. He lifted two fingers over his head, nodding at someone behind them. Cas turned to find two large men now tending the bar, wearing the usual flannel that was the uniform of the area. The dark-haired one waved in acknowledgment. “You have a Wikipedia page too, you know.”

Cas refocused his attention and raised his eyebrow at him. “Do I?”

“I mean, it’s a stub, I guess,” said Sam a little sheepishly. “But it gave me a start. Everyone says the same thing: you were the best scout, the best. Far better than Azazel.” Sam snorted. “You know he called his young acts his ‘Special Children’?”

“I’m sorry,” said Cas. “I can only pray I was never that awful.”

“Believe me, you wouldn’t be here if you had been.”

“Why _am_ I here?”

“To see Dean, or hear Dean. I told you.”

“You don’t need me to tell you how talented he is.”

“No. That I know. But I needed you to tell me how talented the rest of the world might think he is.” The dark-haired bartender came by bearing two beers. “Thanks, Cesar.”

The man waved him off and moved to another table, where people had just sat down. The bar had just started to fill up.

Sam took his glass and drank, but Cas did not. It had nothing to do with not being able to hold his liquor—those rare times when Cain brought out his moonshine proved that Cas had never lost his touch, not really—but everything to do with Sam, and the brother in the shadows. “You want my professional opinion?”

Sam spread his hands.

“All he needs is the right people around him, and a willingness for hard work.”

“Good.” Sam smiled and relaxed back in his chair.

“Is that what he wants?”

“What?”

“He clearly didn’t know you were bringing me, and I’m guessing he doesn’t know who I am.”

“Er, no.”

“So is this something you want for him, or something he wants for himself?”

“He’s always wanted it. Both of us have always wanted it.”

“You seem happy enough out of it. So does he.”

“Does he, though?” Sam waved at someone who just came in, but promptly turned back to Cas. They had to lean closer now that the noise level was going up. “I’ve thought about this for a long time. Trying to figure out when I stopped being happy playing music. And I’m not sure exactly when it started, but by the time I hated it? It’s when Dean was no longer around. I might be willing to come back into the public to play, and write songs, but not as whatever Azazel and Ruby built me up to be. Just as myself, playing with my brother, just as himself. It was the family business, you know.”

“Music?”

“Yeah. That’s why we were on the road a lot. Our parents toured together and took us with them.”

“Would I know them?”

“No, they were never signed. Only made just enough to scrape by, along with some odd jobs. And when Dean and I were on our own, well…we really didn’t know how to do anything else, you know? But we did it our own way, and it was good.”

Cas could see it. He’d seen Sam perform often enough—Garrison was not above poaching unhappy acts, and Sam had certainly been unhappy—but he’d always thought the potential there wasn’t quite being reached. That he’d been given a darkness, a theatrical evil that wasn’t his own. But those rare moments of pure honesty and musicianship, paired with what he’d just seen as a throw away warm up tune in an empty bar? He’d no doubt that the brothers could be a boon to the music world. Cas would love to see it—but he knew that didn’t matter in the least. “I’ll say it again. Is that what Dean wants?”

Sam avoided his eyes.

“It surprises me that after what you’ve been through, after what I suspect your brother has been through, that you would want to force him into the spotlight. With you at his side, there would be spotlight a lot quicker than if he started on his own.”

“I know that,” said Sam earnestly. “I do. And I don’t want to force him into anything, I swear. But you have to see where I’m coming from.”

Cas nodded for him to go on, and finally tried his beer. It was good—he couldn’t place it. Light but full of flavor. Must be something local.

“Dean was… _is_ the best big brother I could ask for. How our parents lived, he practically raised me. I’ve been following him around since I can remember. Been looking up to him since I was at least four, studying him, trying to be just like him.” Cas could imagine it well; he’d once looked up to his own brothers that way. No longer. “I know him,” Sam continued, “better than anyone else in the entire world. He’s settled in not because he no longer wants it. It’s because he’s too terrified to jump back in without a push.”

“Terror has its uses.”

“He’s getting in the way of himself,” Sam disagreed, and with such authority Cas was inclined to believe him. “He’s grown, we both have. I think we’re both strong enough now to avoid all the old mistakes. To get what we want out of a music career without falling into the same pits. We’ve even started writing together again, just like we used to. Ellen lets use the space when the bar’s closed just to jam out and it’s _fun_ like…well like I don’t think it ever used to be. We were born into it. We thrive on it. And the way Dean plays…”  Sam shrugged and shook his head, unable to find the words. He took a swig of his beer and watched the growing crowd around them. Then he locked back onto Cas. “Look. We lost our parents early, which isn’t easy. And then—when I thought I’d grown up—I pushed him away, taking the songs we wrote together and letting them get twisted into something else. The label convinced me I was better than him, that he was holding me back. For a while I believed it. So then when Dean went off and joined his own band, they got caught up in the life and drowned and he nearly drowned himself…and he must have been a damn mess but when I finally swallowed my pride and called him for help, after _years_ , he still came for me.” Sam approached the memories with a steady doggedness of bullheaded determination, barely blinking as he wiped away a tear, demanding Cas’s attention with every line of his body. Cas could but give him the courtesy and respect of really listening. “He’s the one who got me out of my Hellfire contract and into rehab. No idea what kind of shady shit he had to pull to do that,” Sam continued. “And when I was lying in detox, going out of my mind and yelling horrible things at him and swearing off music forever, you know what he did?”

Cas shook his head.

“My brother brought in his acoustic guitar and played. Not just anything, he played…songs Mom wrote, or songs Dad wrote. Songs off the cassette tapes we grew up listening to in the car. Songs we’d written together. Songs he’d written himself. Songs of asphalt and starlight and gasoline and an unending horizon. And he saw me through it.” A burst of laughter came from a nearby table, startling them both. Sam shifted and sighed, as if letting the memories float away. “Didn’t find out ‘til years later that he’d been trying to build a solo career, but dropped everything to take care of me. He has fun with covers but the dream of playing his own music is still alive in him; I can see it. But he won’t listen to what we have to say. He thinks we’re just trying to encourage him ‘cause that’s what family’s supposed to do. Dean just needs someone to have a little faith in him, someone from the outside. I think he’d listen to you, Cas.”

Cas worked his jaw, thinking it over. “Why me?”

“When you rolled into town a few months ago, when I saw you at the farmer’s market the first time?” Sam chuckled, self-deprecating. “I thought it was a sign. Like some kind of miracle. I would never have thought of you in a million years, wouldn’t know how to reach you even if I had, but there you were: a neutral party with the right talents and contacts.”

Cas sighed. It did seem outlandish that of all the small towns he could have rolled into, he’d rolled into the one with two washed up rock stars: a has-been and a could-have-been. He wasn’t religious, had long since abandoned the idea of any kind of intentful god, but he was not completely blind to the strings of fate pulled by the universe. And the way that Dean had made him feel when he played—that was the way he’d felt whenever he’d heard his best acts for the first time. And he couldn’t quite let go of it.

“Stay for the show, then, like you said you would,” Sam said hastily, no doubt sensing Cas’s wavering. “See if you agree, when you see him play more.”

The bar was full by the time the band came back onto the stage, such as it was. There was a smattering of applause from the crowd, though most were neck deep in their beers and nachos. Neither Dean nor Billie announced a band name, or did any patter; Mullet—Ash, Sam informed him—counted time with his drumsticks, and they jumped right into “Rock of Ages.” The night continued, the band playing one classic rock song into the next, with only one or two coming from after 1990. Sometimes Dean took the lead vocals, but Billie took them just as often, a clear ploy to keep their voices fresh: they played for hours, with few breaks.

When Cas looked around at the crowd he did note that the average age skewed toward the crowd that would have been hearing these songs on the radio when they first came out, and he understood why Sam had called for something a little darker and from the band’s own generation. It’s not that they weren’t still fun to listen to; they were excellent entertainers and, now that Cas was paying particular attention, excellent musicians as well (these were not always the same thing). But most of the songs they chose were aimed at the crowd having a good time, and few allowed opportunity for the same kind of pathos. It didn’t matter. Cas had seen it, seen that Dean was capable of the technical aspects of commanding a crowd, and the emotional ones. Every fiber of his professional self was screaming to sign him. He almost patted himself for a stack of business cards he hadn’t carried in years, before remembering.

When the show was over, Cesar came and set an extra beer at the table, and Sam snatched an empty chair from another party. It was clear that Dean still meant to join them. Cas watched the man’s progress as he made his way to their table, stopping now and then to slap someone on the back or chat with people he knew. Like an old clockwork grinding back into gear, Cas’s brain started building a gameplan for ensnaring a new artist. Noted how Dean was easy with friend and stranger alike, but that the place had a strong hold on him that would make him hard to uproot. Knew that given his history and his brother’s wariness that Cas couldn’t say what his background was, or what he wanted (Sam would likely be willing to play along, up to a point); listed questions he needed to ask to find out more about Dean so that he could steer him the direction he wanted, and think it was his own decision, and it wouldn’t be long before he was doing exactly what Castiel asked of him—

As soon as Dean broke free of the last person who snagged his attention, he lifted his head and zeroed in on his brother, smiling like just seeing him there made him happy. Sam returned the smile without artifice, and it held just a tinge of that brotherly hero worship that Sam had mentioned earlier, even in his mid-thirties and under the poor lighting of a dingy South Dakota bar.

And it was that sight that snapped Cas out of his fugue. He was more than a little shaken at how easy it had been to fall back into old habits. Jesus, had he really been considering all of Garrison’s old mind games? Before he’d even realized it, too—preventing Dean from hearing his full name.

Sam handed Dean the untouched beer. “The show was great.”

“Yeah? Good,” said Dean. He took the empty chair and twirled it around so he could sit backwards and rest his elbows on the top. “And what did you think, honey guy?”

Cas bit back his instinctive answer, already perfectly calculated to ingratiate, win trust. He course corrected so hard in that second he landed instead on unvarnished truth. “I liked your warm-up performance better.”

Dean’s face went slack for a split second, surprised, eyes wide (he had long lashes, Cas noted…up close he really was unfairly handsome). He’d clearly been expecting some small platitude, whether sincere or not. Then he huffed a small laugh. “Not the only time I’ve been praised for my _warm-up_ ,” he winked. Then he turned to Sam, gestured at Cas with his beer glass. “Honey guy’s got opinions.”

Sam gave Cas a weird look for his blunt statement, but just shrugged for Dean’s benefit. “His name’s Cas. And we got to talking about music, so I, uh, thought he might like—”

Cas couldn’t let it go on any longer. If Sam kept going it would work a wedge between them as surely as any of the ones Cas had manufactured in the past to put between families to isolate artists. And he’d sworn never to let that happen again. “Castiel Novak,” he said loudly.

Sam cut himself off and cleared his throat. Dean looked at him, and swigged his beer while he thought. “Why does that jog a bell?” he asked.

“I used to work for Garrison Records.”

Dean slammed his beer on the table and whipped his head to glare at Sam. “Is that true?”

Sam, for his part, was glaring at Cas. “Yes. But listen, Dean—”

“No no no no no, huh-uh,” said Dean, holding his hands palm-out to both of them. “You,” he pointed at Cas. His gaze was flinty, the curl of his lips a step away from a snarl. “Why are you here? You stalking my brother? Trying to get him back in the business? Huh?”

“No, I’m no longer in the business,” said Cas calmly. He didn’t like that Dean was angry, of course, but it was understandable, and far preferable to the alternative. It was a good reminder that Dean was his own person, and should stay that way. This is a storm Cas knew he could weather. “I’m here because your brother invited me.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, because I did invite him—”

“Wait your turn,” said Dean.

“No,” Sam snapped. “This isn’t 2008, Dean, I’m not some drug-addled kid who can’t tell up from down anymore, alright?”

He certainly didn’t look like one, sitting up straight, broad shoulders set and jaw clenched under his beard, fire in his eyes.

Dean reined himself in, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, blowing on the exhale. “Fine,” he bit out. He looked back at his brother, plastering on what even Cas could see was a fake little smile. “Why did you invite him here?”

“Cas has been manning the CC’s Bees stand at the farmer’s market for months. He really is no longer in the business, and he never said a damn word to me about music until I brought it up. And I brought it up, because every time I ask you if you’d want to do some shows together, you say _no_. You say there’s no point and you’re not good enough and I’m better onstage alone and I thought you might want the opinion of a neutral fucking party.”

“Jesus, Sammy, the fuck?” sputtered Dean, glancing at Cas and away again. A blush strong enough that it was visible even in the low light swept across his face, and Cas felt a frisson of interest that had nothing to do with his professional self. “Maybe I don’t want his opinion,” he said into his beer, before taking a few long gulps.

“But if you just listen to what he has to say—”

“It’s alright, Sam,” said Cas, because even though he was determined not to manipulate Dean, he couldn’t stop himself from reading him. First, Dean’s reaction told him that even though he probably didn’t care about Cas’s opinion in particular, he did care about how his music read on stage. Second, Sam was going to get nowhere if he pushed right away. Third and best of all, he had no stake in it. Sure, Dean’s voice hit Cas in ways he hadn’t felt in years, but he didn’t have to commodify it to have it. And wasn’t that a freeing thought?

Jo came by, carrying a tray full of beer, long blonde hair now up in a messy bun. “Dean, Mom needs help in the kitchen,” she said as she breezed past.

“This isn’t over,” said Sam, as Dean finished off his beer.

“Yes it is,” his brother said. When he stood he kept hold of his empty bottle, and spun his chair back to face the table. “Enjoy your drink,” he sneered at Cas, and with one last glare at Sam Dean stalked off to the kitchens, the door swinging wildly behind him.

“What were you doing?” asked Sam. “Because if you wanted to convince him, that was not the way to do it.” Gone was all the friendliness, leaving only only anger and frustration behind. Cas could see the resemblance between the brothers. Tough, stubborn, and constantly going to bat for each other, whether they wanted it or not.

“I wasn’t trying to convince him he’s talented,” said Cas equably. “I think he knows how talented he is.”

“Then we’ve got to convince him he needs to get back out there.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

Sam huffed and fell back into his chair, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “I’m not wrong about what he wants.”

“You might know,” agreed Cas. “But he doesn’t.”

Sam sighed, some of the stiffness melting from his body. “You’re saying we can’t forcibly remove his head from his ass.”

Cas smiled. “Has it worked before?”

Sam snorted.

“I figured as much. Look, Sam.” Cas watched a drop of condensation slide down his beer glass, and swiped it away with his thumb. “Your brother doesn’t need some exec or manager coming in and filling his head with buzzwords. But I can still give him an outside perspective he might respect.”

“How?”

“As a fan.”

“A…fan?” Sam looked flummoxed, eyeing Cas and crinkling his nose.

“You said the two of you play together when the bar’s closed.”

“When we have time.”

“Would you be willing to let me sit in on a session? That way I can assess both of you on your original work.”

Hope lit Sam’s face. He could finally see where Cas was going with this. “Absolutely,” Sam agreed.

They exchanged numbers, and Cas stood to go. His coat was mostly dry, and besides, he didn’t want Cain and Colette think he’d absconded with their truck. “Let me know the next time you’re going to play, and I’ll be there.” And with one last look at the instruments sitting abandoned in the back of the bar, he left.

***

Ten minutes before the kitchen closed at 1am, there was a big rush for more food, as there usually was. Dean took out his frustration—and his guilt—on the burgers and chicken breasts he slapped on the grill while Ellen took care of the rest. Jo and Cesar were in and out waiting on patrons while Jesse manned the bar, so he didn’t look up at first when the door swung open. But when the faucet turned on at the big double sink, he saw Sam leaning over it and scrubbing dishes with a vengeance. His guilt intensified. It’s been a long time since he’s treated Sam like someone who couldn’t take care of himself. It’s part of what made Sam push him away in the first place, he knew, but even the mere idea of some conniving exec coming to poach his brother again had his hackles raised. Dean just knew by the set of Sam’s shoulders that he was blaming himself for all the bad shit he’d done before rehab.

Dean bit his tongue and bided his time. When the rush was over, the last plate sent out with Jo, Ellen went out front to check on the bar. Quickly but thoroughly Dean cleaned the stove and the grill, then hipchecked his brother away from the sink. “You’re supposed to wear gloves, doofus,” he said, pulling on a yellow pair himself. Sam just sighed, giving his head a small shake to get the hair out of his eyes. But he let Dean take over the washing without fuss, and instead started drying all the odd pots and pans he’d already taken care of. The noise out in the bar swelled and ebbed as the kitchen door swung open again, Ellen making her way back to her office.

“I trust you,” said Dean. “You know that, right?”

Sam grunted.

“He said Garrison Records and I couldn’t help it, I just got…”

“Protective, I know,” Sam supplied, without looking at him.

Dean watched his brother a moment longer before handing him another pot to dry. He took it, and they worked together in silence until the last plate was placed in the rack and the dishwasher was turned on and the sink cleared of all debris. Then Dean peeled off his gloves and waited, leaning against he counter.

Sam threw his rag into the dirty pile and pulled his long hair—what Dean wouldn’t give for two minutes with a pair of scissors—back into a small ponytail. “Sometimes I wish I could go back,” he said at last. “Knowing what I know now.”

“And what?” asked Dean.

“Dunno,” Sam shrugged. “I just think it would be nice, knowing how to avoid all the pitfalls.”

“Yeah, we’ve been through some tough times. Can’t deny it,” said Dean. “But whatever we’ve done, who we are? We’re good. And you and me? We’re solid. Right?”

Sam’s mouth twitched in half a smile. “Right.”

“Then explain to me why you brought some in some music producer because I gotta say, you threw me for a loop, man. You say you want to erase the bad stuff but you’re bringing in the enemy?”

“No, no way,” said Sam, slashing his arm through the air in emphasis. “That’s not what this is. He’s out of the business, he’s not the enemy, and I asked him here because I miss it.”

“You—you _miss_ —?” echoed Dean. “You just said if you could pull a Cher and turn back time—”

“Give me a break, Dean,” said Sam. “I don’t miss the groupies or the drugs or the, the sold-out stadiums or even fucking Ruby, okay? I miss…” He looked heavenward, lifting and dropping his hands, exasperated. “Performing in front of people. Sharing music. Being onstage with you. Driving across the country in the Impala. Hell, even those stupid cassettes you refuse to get rid of. It’s not like I want to be on tour all the time. This is my home now, and I wouldn’t want to be away from Eileen too long anyway. But is it so bad that I actually want an expert to hear our music for once and tell me what he thinks? Can I at least have that?”

Dean crossed his arms and stared at the floor, thinking. He didn’t like that this guy just happened to show up in Bumfuck, SD out of coincidence. He didn’t like that it’s put some idea in Sammy’s head that writing music that makes just the two of them happy isn’t quite enough. And he really didn’t like that having the guy’s blue eyes on him for the whole show with some kind of insane laser focus had, at the time, made him think there was something there other than professional interest. But whatever. He looked up. “You actually trust this guy?”

Sam gave a slight, noncommittal nod to the side. “His story is legit, as far as I’ve been able to find. And our conversation convinced me that I wasn’t wrong about him. I mean, Dean, if you see the way little old ladies are sweet on him at the market. And he’s really good with kids, gives them these little honey pops. One of the other stand-owners at the market lets him babysit her one-year-old, for chrissakes. I think our virtue is safe.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine. But the second I see him take his phone out to record us, my fist is rearranging his face. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Sam.

***

A few days later, Cas got back to his house on the edge of the Mullen property after a long morning of helping Cain get things set up on the farm, now that spring seemed like it might be here to stay. The house was really little more than a cabin, but painted a pretty white and circled by a garden all his own. He’d come on far too late last year to plant anything, but the Mullens had given him permission to do what he wanted with the small area around the house. The couple of creaky wooden steps and tiny porch could probably use a handyman’s touch—he knew Cain and Colette had jack-of-all trades they liked, he should get his contact information—but the garden was definitely going to come first.

The inside was all one room, excepting the bathroom and the single bedroom; the floors were all hardwood, so he separated the space roughly in half with an old blue couch, the kitchen area on one side and the living area on the other. The appliances were newer than the decor, though that wasn’t saying much, as most of it was original to when it had been built in the seventies. Cas had given up almost everything from his old life, except for his music collection: records, 8-tracks, cassettes, CDs. They were stacked both on shelves and on the floor in the corner of the living area, and this was the only personal mark he’d made in the house. He also owned several ipods, though they were scattered about the place, and errant cords and headphones could be found in every drawer.

He stopped in his bedroom to throw his shirt in the laundry basket when he saw his phone blinking on the nightstand, where he’d left it charging. There was a text from Sam.

 **We** **’re playing at the roadhouse around noon  
Can you make it?**

Cas checked the timestamp; it’d been sent forty minutes ago, and even if he showered quickly he didn’t think he’d quite make it by noon.

 **I can come a little after  
If that** **’s alright**  


He didn’t have to wait long for a response.

 **We** **’ll be here**

A flash of excitement rose up in him, something akin to nerves, an almost chaotic anticipation. “Get a hold of yourself,” Cas muttered, shucking the rest of his clothes. But he couldn’t help it. He loved music enough to keep track of trends and find new up-and-comers to listen to, but live music was something he’d avoided these last several years. Suddenly he was seventeen again, milling in front of club doors, ready to run inside the second they opened so he could be first on the floor. He could almost feel the press of bodies, the smell of sweat, the skunk of weed lying like a blanket in the humid air, the way the crowd undulated to and from the stage like tides to the moon. This was going to be nothing like those old days, Cas knew, but new music, live music, hearing Sam Winchester perform for the first time in ages, and hearing Dean again…

After a quick shower and a fresh set of clothes, an even quicker text to Colette to say he’d be out closer to town if she or Cain thought of anything he needed to pick up, and grabbing his trench coat off one hook and his car keys next to it, he was out the door. The truck, in fact, was Cain’s; the only other thing Cas had saved from his old life was his car, a bright blue 1963 Jaguar Mark X. He called him the Funkbird.

As he drove his car slowly down the road from his house, barely more than two gravel tire tracks leading to the gravel road proper, he flicked the radio off the old country station he’d last been listening to. Cas turned the dial until it hit on one of the farm stations, a soothing voice reading weather forecasts and livestock prices. He didn’t want any music to influence him when he finally heard the Winchesters play.

Unlike the stormy day when he’d last been there, in the clear daylight Cas got a good view of the Roadhouse from the outside. It was all unpainted wood, wooden siding, wooden awning. It had seen better days, but for all that looked as well kept as could be, no stray cigarette butts or beer bottles left to languish outside the door. There were a few cars parked on the far side of the lot, including Sam’s silver Prius. Though the one that really caught Cas’s eye was a great black beauty, definitely American-made, and not too much older than the Funkbird, if he had to guess. He promised himself he’d get a good look at it— _after_ the music.

The door was unlocked, and creaked shut behind him. Cas had to adjust some to the darker interior, though it was still brighter than last time, given the sun streaming through the windows. It gave the whole place a warmer feel, the wooden chairs and tables a deep brown, the lights glowing a soft yellow. It smelled of fried food and beer, like the best kind of bars the country over. The instruments were already set up on the dais in the back, though no one was there. A large lump was sprawled atop the pool table in the back, which after a moment’s inspection revealed itself to be a sleeping Ash. Hopefully sleeping. A hard knock sounded to his right, and he turned to the bar to see Jo chopping limes with a sharp knife. She stared him right in the eye, flipped the knife in her hand and brought it down again much harder than necessary. The fruit split, perfectly sliced. The message was loud and clear: _One wrong move._

He nodded once in acknowledgment. She held their gaze a moment longer— _chop_ —then spoke. “Want something?”

Cas walked up to the counter. The sun might have been out, but spring was still young and cold with the last dregs of winter. “Do you still have the mulled wine?”

“Done for the season,” she said. _Chop_. “Anything else?”

“Beer, then. Whatever you have handy.”

After a split second longer than was polite, she set down her knife. She wiped her hands on a towel which she tossed over her shoulder and put a glass under one of the taps, of which there were dozens. Since she only wore a black tank top he could clearly see the flex of arms as the beer started flowing. Cas strongly suspected that regulars did _not_ trifle with the Harvelle women, no matter how drunk they got. When the glass was full, the head was a perfectly thin layer on the top of the beer. An expert pull.

Jo whipped a coaster seemingly from nowhere and set the beer on top of it. “What you were drinking last time,” she said. “Cash or tab?”

“Really, Jo?” Sam had come out of the back. His hair was down today, and he was wearing a simple red flannel and jeans. He was followed by Eileen, wearing similar gear. “You’re not even open.”

“He doesn’t get the family discount,” said Jo, unrepentant.

“Well, he’s my guest.” Sam came around Cas’s side of the bar and slid a five over.

Jo scowled and slid it back. “Your money isn’t good here.”

Eileen walked up to Cas and grinned. “These two could take all day to out-stubborn each other. My advice is take the beer and run.”

Cas chuckled and took the advice. He picked up his beer and the coaster, and followed Eileen to a table near the short dais. “This is the best place to sit, in my opinion,” she said. She had a half-drunk glass of beer herself, and she took another sip after sitting down. “Close enough to the amps for optimum vibrations, when they use them, and a clear vantage point for ogling my husband.”

Sure enough, unlike the other night, there were two chairs set up on the stage, directly in front of them. “I bow to your expertise,” said Cas. He opened his mouth to ask a question, then thought better of it. He drank some of his beer; it was just as good as he remembered.

“It’s alright,” said Eileen. “Now that the cat’s out of the bag, you’re wondering how I ended up with a rock star when I can’t even hear his music the same way you can.”

Cas smiled ruefully. “Something along those lines.”

She shrugged. “Not like I didn’t know who he was, even before we started dating. Took him a while, but when he finally got the balls to ask about it, I told him the truth.”

“Which is?”

“His music produced by Hellfire was boring.” Her smile let Cas know that she was perfectly aware that _boring_ was the most feared reaction a song could be given. “I prefer stuff with more interesting beats, like Nine Inch Nails, or pretty much anything produced by Dr. Dre.”

Cas huffed a laugh and raised his glass. “Excellent taste.” She clinked, and they drank. “How did he react to that?”

“Honestly?” she said. “I think it was novel for him.”

“He liked it,” Cas concluded.

Eileen winked at him, and then smiled over his shoulder. Cas turned to see Sam walking up to their table. “Do I want to know?” he asked, speaking and signing.

“Nope,” Eileen said, then she whipped her long wavy hair out of the way and signed something up at him with a wicked grin on her face. Sam signed something back garnering a quick response from Eileen. Instead of continuing the conversation, he caught one of her hands before she dropped it back to the table, and gave the back of it a kiss. It was incredibly sweet to witness, and while Cas was happy for them, underneath all that…it pressed against some lonely place inside of him, like an old wound, still tender, never fully healed.

Not a moment later, Dean came out of the kitchens, still talking to whoever was back there. He laughed at the response and turned toward the stage. His smile dropped when he saw Cas. The elder Winchester halted and put his hands on his hips, pushing his unbuttoned flannel open over a plain t-shirt. “So we’re doing this.”

“Yep,” said Sam. “You good?”

“I’m not!” called Jo from behind the bar.

“She took my money,” explained Sam.

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Whatever, fine, great. Let’s do this.”

In two big strides, Dean reached the edge of the stage and hopped on. Sam bent to where a guitar case was lying in the corner and took out an acoustic, while Dean picked up the one sitting on a stand. They both handled their instruments with an air of easy competence, familiarity, and even a bit of reverence, which made Cas suspect they’d owned these guitars for many years. Since they came from a musical family, Cas wondered whether they had belonged to their parents.

Before Sam sat he also set up a little music stand, and propped up a notebook so both brothers could see. He’d barely set it down when Dean was flipping to a different page, and pulling a small pencil from his pocket. “I’ve been thinking—” he said, but cut himself off. He glanced at Cas, and continued in a lower voice so he couldn’t overhear. Sam nodded as Dean marked something on the page.

After another minute of this Sam rolled his eyes. “Let’s just play it, Dean.”

Dean huffed but sat back up in his chair, tossing the pencil onto the stand’s edge next to the notebook. “It’s a work in progress,” he said to Cas.

“Understood,” he answered.

Dean shook his head a final time, and then seemed to settle. Cas held his breath. The brothers sat poised, looking at each other. Dean tapped the beat on the belly of his guitar and Sam nodded along until they both strummed, and the song began.

Dean opened his mouth and oh…Cas had thought he remembered what it was like to listen to Dean. But not even memory could get exact the gruffness of Dean’s voice, the curve of his shoulders, the flutter of his eyelashes when getting lost in the lyrics. His fingers, strong and calloused, dancing along the neck of the guitar. The rough beauty of his yell, stark over the acoustic. The emotions spreading through the room, like a direct pathway into Cas’s soul. Artistry without artifice. Craft without conscious thought. Singing for the sake of the song. There really was nothing like the experience of live music done _well_.

God, how had Cas lived without this for so many years?

Sam came in, harmonizing on the chorus. It seemed that time had been kind to his voice; it was deeper than it was, rounder, lacking the sneering quality that he so often used in the old days. It also had a gruffness that was new, though it was a light touch in comparison to Dean. Regardless their voices blended beautifully, even effortlessly, and it must have been, Cas figured, if they’d been singing together as long as Sam had implied.

For all that, though, as lovely as it was stripped down, the song called for more atmosphere. Cas closed his eyes and twitched his fingers, as if running over buttons and fades. Drums came in, first, the steady beat an undercurrent of impending approach, rather than an anchor. Bass, electric bass, deep and fast and melodic, bearing out the suppressed disquiet in their voices. Keys? No—cello. Mournful undertones, quiet and soft as silk, long wails beyond conscious thought. Telling the story beneath the story.

When the song ended, Cas blinked several times before opening his eyes. Sam and Dean were staring at him, the former in curiosity, and the latter in consternation. “Are we boring you?” Dean asked. Eileen giggled into her beer.

“Quite the opposite,” said Cas. “I was just trying to listen to it” —he tapped his head— “how it should be.”

“Excuse me?” said Dean at the same time Sam asked, “What do you mean?”

“I was producing it, adding instruments. I think one of the guitars should be electric, for starters—”

“Whoa, Cas,” said Sam. “We’re still in the writing stages. I don’t think we’re ready for any of that.”

“No,” said Dean. “I wanna hear this.” He made a show of turning his attention onto Cas.

Never one to turn down a challenge, Cas stood and shrugged off his trenchcoat. Dean stood and set down his guitar, reaching for an electric, and pointedly did not move when Cas stepped onto the stage. He had to shuffle between Dean and his chair to get to the drums, and this close it was apparent that Dean was just a bit taller than him, and he used that extra height to his advantage, doing his best to loom. But Zachariah’s tirades had given Cas much practice, in his time at Garrison, and so he was unfazed. “I’m not that great a drummer, but I’ll do my best so you get the idea,” he said, circling the kit. It was a fairly elaborate set, and intimidating to Cas’s non-musician eyes. Nevertheless he picked up the sticks that were lying across the snare.

Dean smirked and Sam said, “I wouldn’t—”

Ash gave a loud snore that turned into a snort, and he jerked upright on the pool table. “Nobody touches the drums!” He squinted and pointed at Cas across the room. “You need a drummer?”

“Um, yes.”

“Alright,” Ash said, and hopped off the table. He sauntered over to the stage, scratching his belly through his dark t-shirt, also sleeveless. When he reached the drums he made a shooing motion at Cas. “Hands off the goods, compadre.” The air around him smelled faintly of weed. Cas handed him the drumsticks and stepped back around to the front of the kit. Ash settled on his stool and twirled the sticks in each hand. “What do you need?” he asked, looking up at Cas.

“Just a minute, ah—” The electric bass was sitting at his feet. He was a better bass player than a drummer, thankfully, but his hand paused halfway to reaching for it. “May I…?” he asked, looking to the Winchesters.

Sam grinned. “Yeah, Cas.”

So Cas picked up the bass and flicked on the amp, strumming and adjusting accordingly. “The cello we’re going to have to do without. Dean, if you’re playing the electric, you and Sam should switch guitar parts.”

“Fine,” said Dean.

“Ash—” Cas turned to the drummer and explained what he wanted, and had him start at a little faster tempo than Dean had chosen. He thought the bass should have a more elaborate line than he felt comfortable playing, but he did the best he could. Between Cas and Ash an atmosphere was set, more or less, dark, uncertain, headed forward, forward, forward. Dean was watching his hands, assessing, though what he thought Cas couldn’t tell.

Sam, though, entered on the next downbeat. It sounded good, layering neatly over the rhythm, but they still needed a little more…

At last, a few measures later, Dean started playing. For a bit he kept the chords as Sam had played it before, but then he made an adjustment, another, hitting this chord harder and this chord softer, taking Cas’s foundation and improving upon it. When he opened his mouth to sing Cas closed his eyes again, imagining the cello. The song needed some polishing, and he’d have to look at the lyrics later, but they were almost there, almost there. This album was going to be—

No, no album.

Cas stopped playing abruptly. The others petered out after him.

“Another idea?” asked Sam, when Cas said nothing.

Cas swallowed. Carefully he took off the bass and set it neatly in the stand. “No, Sam. I—I just think this isn’t what you asked me here for.” He squeezed past Dean again, but kept his eyes trained on the door. He hopped off the stage and picked up his coat. Eileen looked up at him with worried eyes, which made him pause. He attempted a smile at her, and turned it toward Sam and Dean, too. “I know I only heard the one song, but I did like it. Do what feels right to you, but for what it’s worth…you’ve got something special.” He looked down at his jacket, which he was squeezing between his hands. Taking a deep breath, he flapped it open and shrugged it on in one motion. “Thanks for the beer,” he said, and left.

***

“The hell is going on in here?” asked Ellen, peering over Dean’s shoulder.

Everyone was squeezed into Ash’s back room at the Roadhouse, not a half hour before they opened: Dean, Sam, Jo, Billie, who’d just arrived for her shift, and Ash himself, sitting at his desk in front of his giant array of technology. They were all leaning over him, pointing at the screen and reaching over to touch keys and buttons (and were promptly slapped away). After Cas had left, they’d made a shitty recording of the song just using laptop speakers, and Ash was now layering cello over it digitally. Since Cas hadn’t said exactly what he’d wanted the cello to do, they’d been arguing about it for the past twenty minutes.

“We’re just trying to get this right, ma,” said Jo.

“Well I’m just trying to run a bar, here, Joanna Beth, so wrap it up.”

“ _Alright_ ,” said Jo, exasperated. When her mother just shook her head and left, Jo nudged Ash in the shoulder. “Just play it, already.”

“In three, two, one,” said Ash, and clicked play.

The drums began, and Ash did a little airdrums along with them. Then the bass, then both guitars. There was a pause between the first two verses, instead of a chorus, and that’s where they’d finally agreed to bring in the cello. They all held their breath, listening, as the second verse started. They said nothing as the chorus was sung, and stayed quiet through the rest of the song. When it was over, Ash leaned back in his chair and tucked his hands behind his head, his pointy elbows forcing the rest of them to step back. Sam opened his mouth; closed it.

Dean plopped down on Ash’s bed, the old mattress giving a protesting squeak. “Son of a _bitch_.”

The others nodded in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs this chapter:
> 
> Staind - [Mudshovel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmH3OugIZt8)  
> Candlebox - [Far Behind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9EeIscC8zA)  
> Def Leppard - [Rock of Ages](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXFxPN7Sqxo)  
> Cher - [If I Could Turn Back Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUbjmLrp9dc)


	2. Stellar

Dean couldn’t stop thinking about the song. All during the day, when usually he’d have the stereo turned up and the garage at Singer’s Salvage vibrating with classic riffs, instead he listened to the CD Ash had burned for him on the spot. First the track as they’d recorded it, and then with the pseudo-production. He listened to them over and over and over, one version after another. He thought of how natural it had been to use the electric. Cas’s long fingers plucking at the bass. The way Sam had perked up when they were all playing together, taking what he and Dean had come up with and building on it. Creating. Collaborating.

It wasn’t that Dean wasn’t grateful. He was grateful every damn day for the life he now led. He liked cars and bars; working for his honorary uncle Bobby at the garage and for his honorary aunt and sister at the Roadhouse hardly felt like chores. He liked his new friends, Billie and Ash, Jesse and Cesar. He adored Eileen. But mostly, he was grateful to have Sam, not just in his life, but healthy. And playing music with him again? Well, that was just a bonus.

It’s just Dean had forgotten what it was like, really working on music. If music is about getting across a feeling, plucking the heart or revving up the body, then the whole struggle is in making sure you’re being heard, right? It never mattered when it was just Sam and Dean, because they understood each other like no one else ever would. But then there was Cas, who’d heard the song once, _once_ , and held it like an uncut gem, chiseled it, shaped it, uncovered the hidden facets for all to hear and understand. The bitch of it was that he hadn’t produced the song to oblivion, the way everything on mainstream radio these days. He’d actually made it better. In one session. What would a song become if he were given a studio and a budget and—

Dean rolled out from under the car he was working on. He sat up, the ache in his back a fact of life these days. His hands were smudged with oil and dirt. They were more used to garage tools and kitchen utensil these days, than guitar strings. It was the same story across America, Dean figured; every child grew up dreaming, and many grew up to at least try achieving them. But so few ever end up how they dream it. There were bills to pay and family to take care of. Maybe it would be different, if his dream had been anything but music. That boy was long dead. Dead with his parents, with Gordon, with all the mentors he’d looked up to while in the scene.

Then again, seeing what his and Sam’s music would become wasn’t a promise, was it? It could be a hobby. Even intramural sports had coaches, right? The only real issue was Cas. So he knew his music; that was no surprise. But had anyone in the history of ever decided to move to the Dakotas of all places for _bees_ , and only bees? Was the way he’d been upfront about who he’d worked for just a ruse to encourage trust? And what was with suddenly stopping in the middle of the song and walking out? Was that just a show, too? Even if it wasn’t, it had been odd. One minute he was into it, eyes closed, head back, really feeling it, and the next: frozen, pale, as if he’d seen a ghost. Cas was quiet and intense and had a staring problem, and was overall just a weird dude. And Dean was supposed to trust him?

“Am I paying you to sit around?”

Dean startled, flipping off the roller onto the concrete. “Ah fuck! Jesus, Bobby!”

“Idjit,” Bobby muttered, but gave him a hand off the floor. He nodded his head toward the stereo. “That you boys?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed.

“It’s a pretty good song. Quality’s for shit,” Bobby said, “but the song’s pretty good. Doesn’t mean you have to play it 500 times,” he added pointedly.

“Sorry, it’s just…” Dean went to the stereo and pressed stop. He popped it open and plucked out the CD. It was plain white, except for where Ash had scrawled CAS REMIX in black sharpie along the bottom. Dean waved it so Bobby could see. “This guy, Cas. Used to be a producer and record exec. He sorta semi-produced the song. Dunno what to think.”

“Like I said,” Bobby shrugged, “I think it’s good.”

“The song?” said Dean, looking down at the CD once more before placing it in an unassuming jewel case. “The song’s good, yeah. It’s the guy I’m not sure about.”

“Cas,” mused Bobby, lifting his ball cap and rubbing his scalp. “Not the man the Mullens took on?”

“That’s him. You know him?”

“Sure, he’s the guy who came in with that Jag on your day off a few months ago; I told you about her.”

“Not the Mark X?”

“1963,” Bobby confirmed.

“No shit.” Dean tapped his fingers against the jewel case in thought.

“Yep. Kept up in pretty good condition, too.”

Taking good care of your car—especially a classic car—was a trait that Dean highly respected in a person, so that, at least, was a point in Cas’s favor.

“The Mullens’ll probably want you over soon to take a look at everything before the season starts, I suspect,” said Bobby.

“Sure.”

“Look, you’re worried about your brother and that’s not a bad thing. So if you wanted to know more about a man, bonding over classic cars might be a way to do that. Just sayin’.”

***

Dean figured Bobby’s plan was as good as any, so he set it up with Cain and Colette to come over that weekend. His days were mostly free on Saturdays and Sundays, since his evenings were spent working at the Roadhouse. He very carefully did not mention Cas.

That Saturday dawned bright and clear. It had been storming off and on all week, but the last one had blown through the night before so that the first real warm front had finally come, and the sun presided over the prairie with renewed strength. Dean wasn’t a fan of early mornings, but he was excited to get out of his dingy little apartment on the edge of Sioux Falls and take Baby out for a real ride, like she deserved. Once he got out of town the roads were mostly empty, and he could really open her up. The engine was loud, the music louder, and the rolling grasses on either side of the asphalt were at last a deepening green. The whole world felt just a little more alive.

Dean didn’t slow down until he reached the turn-off toward the Mullen farm, which was a gravel road. Not only did he want to avoid dings on the Impala’s paint job, but there were still a couple puddles from the storm, and wary of potholes, he maneuvered over and around them. The farm wasn’t too far down the road, thankfully, so it was only a few minutes until he rolled to a stop in front of the Mullens’ house. It was a two-story home, a pale yellow with white trim, full of windows and pleasant with a porch that reached across the full breadth of the house. Plenty of hooks hung from the overhang, empty, awaiting their flower pots for the season. Between them were wind chimes, many and varied; some with metal tubes, some with spirals, some with repurposed silverware, and decorated with flowers, butterflies, and bees, bees, bees. Most of them were no doubt bought from the street fairs they traveled to while hocking their honey.

Colette was waiting for him on the porch, standing in front of the screen door with hands on her hips and a smile on her face. She was wearing some old overalls and a plaid shirt underneath, her graying hair swept up in a messy bun. The cold, early spring breeze swept by and set the wind chimes dancing around her.

Dean got out of the car and walked over, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Hey, stranger,” he said. He climbed the steps and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Good to see you, Dean,” she said. She nodded her chin at the Impala. “She must be glad to be out of hibernation.”

“She’s awesome,” answered Dean. “We’re Back in Black, baby!”

Colette was thinner than Dean was used to seeing her, but she still grinned with her whole self, face folding into plentiful laugh lines and spine leaning slightly back, like her joy was hard to contain. “I could hear her coming from a mile away.”

“Gotta make an entrance,” Dean winked.

“Mm. It’s a beautiful day for a drive.” She wandered over to the porch railing and leaned her elbows on it. When another breeze rolled through she closed her eyes and lifted her head, her smile softening in the sunlight. Dean joined her at the rail, pressed the small of his back to it. It was bright enough out that it was hard to make out the inside of the house through the glass, an interior of shadows. Colette opened her eyes and nudged her elbow into his. “How are you, Dean?”

“Peachy,” he said. “You?”

“Peachy.” She looked back out across the grass and the road and fields, all the way to the horizon. “Cain pulled  the tractor out of the barn so you can look it over, but he’s off picking rocks with Cas.”

Rock picking was boring, hard work, but the slight hunch in her shoulders spoke volumes. “Wish you were out there, huh?”

“Didn’t feel quite up to it,” she admitted. “Thought I might at least take a walk around the farm to at least see what needs doing, but” —she shrugged— “I’m just another field mouse, with all those best laid schemes.”

“Eh, you’ve seen one farm, you’ve seen ‘em all,” Dean quipped.

Colette gave a short laugh, low and slightly wheezing. “You might be right. But when it’s your own farm…” The wind chimes tinkled and trilled, filling the pause. “Cain and I have spent the last two decades building this, you know. Making something of this land, and of ourselves. Since I’ve been sick Cain does most of the work, and Cas picks up the rest of my share. And I’m stuck watching the world move on without me, even though I’m still right here.” Her mouth twitched into a frown. “Now I spend my days asking myself, have I done enough? What kind of life am I living if I can no longer participate in the one I built? And what kind of life is that, if I can’t see the evidence of it anymore? Will all that’s left of me be the roses and hydrangeas growing outside the house? And if they die, what then? The seasons turn and all the seeds I’ve ever planted…” Colette dropped her head in self-deprecating laughter. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m burdening you with this. Maybe I’m just not used to hiding things from my husband,” she added, trying to lighten the mood.

Dean turned and mirrored her position at the railing, sneaking a hand in between hers. “It’s no burden.” He squeezed gently. Her hands were cool to the touch, skin almost papery when so long they’d been strong and rough and calloused with hard work. “And a lady needs her secrets, right?”

“Or a just a handsome young man to tell them to,” she teased.

Dean snorted. “I ain’t young anymore.”

“Perspective, Dean. I remember when you and your brother used to skulk around my parents’ farm as kids.” She sighed and let his hand go, pushing upright from the porch rail. “Get to work, troublemaker.”

Dean clutched his chest in mock offense. “I get caught making crop circles _one time_ —”

Colette laughed her way back into the house.

After a pit stop at his car to grab his tools, Dean walked over to the barn to find the tractor waiting, just like Colette had said. He took his time and did a thorough job of looking through the engine, and checking the tires, everything he could do without being able to put in on a lift. It was only in the upper 50s or low 60s, and the wind was cold, but there were no clouds to shade the sun and soon Dean had his flannel tied around his waist, and sweat was starting to soak through his plain shirt.

When he was done he headed back to the house and checked on their brown and tan pickup. It was pretty old itself, an ‘87, but the past winter hadn’t seen it any worse for the wear, thankfully. He’d just dropped the hood on it, inspection done, when he heard the screen door creak and clack back into its frame. Dean looked up, wiping the droplets of sweat forming on his forehead with his arm. Colette was back on the porch toting a large picnic jug in one hand; three empty mugs dangled from the fingers of the other. “Thirsty?” she asked.

Dean snapped his toolbox shut and set it by Baby’s front wheel, then hopped up the porch steps. “If this is your famous minty sweet tea lemonade, then hell yes, I am.”

“You know it is.”

He took the jug from her first. The way the handle was practically dropped into his hand let him know she’d been having more trouble with the weight of it than she’d been letting on. He propped it up on the porch rail and took the mug she handed him to pour himself a cup. It was cold and sweet and refreshing. He downed it in three gulps.

“How is it?”

“Perfect.”

“Good. Would you do me a favor and take it out to Cain and Cas?” She gestured to the other two mugs in her hand. “Make sure they’re hydrated. And they’ve been out there for a while, they should probably eat soon. And remind them to reapply sunscreen, in case they’ve forgotten.” She shifted her weight, uncomfortable.

Dean felt a pang of sympathy for Colette; as a man who prided himself in pulling his own weight and looking out for his family, he knew firsthand how much it sucked when you found yourself in a position where you couldn’t. “Tea, lunch, sunscreen. No problem,” he said, plastering on a smile. It was a perfect excuse to approach Cas, at any rate.

“Thank you,” she said. They transferred the mugs from her fingers to Dean’s. “Think you might stay for a bite to eat?”

Dean hefted the (mostly) full jug off the railing. “Nah, you know how Ellen opens a little earlier on weekends. By the time I get back from the field,” he shrugged.

“Alright.” Colette settled for a pat on his cheek, since his hands were full. “Take care, Dean.”

“Yeah, you too.” Dean turned and clomped down the porch steps and headed toward the field. He looked back once; Colette stayed on the porch watching him, hands in her pockets, until he’d rounded the corner and was out of sight.

He cut past the chicken coop and took a wide berth around the beehives. Intellectually he knew that if you didn’t bother them they wouldn’t bother you and they might not even be done hibernating yet, but _bees_. Even beekeepers wore protective suits and Dean sure as hell wasn’t taking any chances. Different parts of the Mullen land were used for different hives and different crops of flowers for them to pollinate, along with patches of prairie ripe with wildflowers, though nothing was blooming yet. Another portion, though, was used for more traditional crops, and that’s the direction Dean headed. It was a relatively small portion, but big enough once you were taking care of all of it yourself.

With the sky clear and nothing now between Dean and the rest of the property, he could see two figures in the distance, practically silhouettes under the strength of the sun: one farther away, bending and lifting, the other much closer and walking toward the barn. There was no mistaking Cain, especially when he caught sight of Dean and changed his trajectory. He was wearing a worn white henley with the sleeves rolled, and as he got closer Dean realized it wasn’t just that his gray hair was slicked back; he must have grown it out over the winter, because it was spilling in curls from a pony at the back of his neck. He and Sammy must attend the same hair salon, geez.

“Was just coming to find you,” said Cain. “How’s the tractor?” A man of a few short words, per usual. His curt manner was off-putting to some, but Dean had been around him long enough to know that’s just the way he was.

“She’s good,” said Dean, “truck’s good. Let me know if you run into any problems, though.”

“Will do. That tea?” He pointed at the jug. As an answer Dean tossed him a mug, then held the drink high enough he could pour some for himself. He sighed in contentment after a long swallow. “I take it you talked to my beautiful wife.”

“Yep. She wants you to stay hydrated, use sunscreen, and come in for lunch soon.”

Cain grunted in acknowledgment. “You heading out, then?”

“Uh, I thought I’d…” Dean lifted the jug, vaguely indicating the field behind Cain.

Cain glance over his shoulder and turned back to Dean with a raised eyebrow. “I can bring Cas the tea.”

“Well, yeah, but you know.” He smiled, trying for charming.

Not that charm had ever once worked on Cain. “You’re curious about your brother’s new friend,” he said shrewdly.

Dean sighed, giving up the half-hearted subterfuge. “You know about all that, huh?”

Cain gave a small but elegant shrug. “A man comes back from the market hours late with your truck and your goods, you tend to ask questions.”

“So you know he was in the music industry?”

“I know now.”

“What do you mean, you know now?” Dean spread his arms, the tea sloshing in its container. “You didn’t know when you hired him?”

“He had is references.”

“What, from Garrison Records?”

“From other beekeepers, Dean,” Cain said shortly. “The community isn’t that big and you get to know everyone on the street fair circuit. What kind of fool do you take me for?”

“I don’t think you’re a fool,” said Dean. “But aren’t you curious about why some west coast exec who probably has more money than god is hiding out here in the boonies?”

“Same reason we all are, I suspect.”

“I ain’t hiding.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Alright, then,” said Cain. “Ask me what my life was like before I came here.” He took another sip of tea, gaze locked with Dean’s face over the mug. The breeze picked up and pulled at the strands of hair escaped from his ponytail.

“Um, what?”

“You think I took my wife’s name because I’m some kind of progressive? Come on, ask.”

“Ohh-kay,” said Dean. “What was your life like before you came here?”

Cain’s entire body shifted, limbs pulling straight and turning him into a steel wall. “None of your business,” he said. His blue eyes were chips of ice.

Dean had a chill that had nothing to do with the wind wicking the sweat from his skin. By the time he and Sam had settled in the area permanently, Cain had already established himself in the community. He was Colette’s husband, for one, and she was well liked. Besides which, if he kept to himself and didn’t add much to a conversation, well what was the big deal? There were plenty of people around who could claim Scandinavian ancestry. Being stoic, guarding your privacy, these were things the locals understood. If Cain kept his head down, who would think to question him?

His point made, Cain softened. But only slightly. “I won’t tell you what I got up to, but I will say that I was a mean, bitter son of a bitch, ready to tear down the world with my bear hands. I was so far down the road to hell…” He shook his head. “I was certain there was no turning back.”

“What happened?” Dean asked quietly.

“Colette.”

“You fell in love?”

Cain snorted. “I wasn’t capable of it. Not at first. But it was...the way she saw me. Saw the world. Even with everything she knew I’d done, was doing, she still believed I deserved a second chance. Not sure that I do, even now. But she helps me keep the faith.” He pivoted a bit so that they could both see the lone figure working in the distance. “Maybe he did some awful things; maybe he didn’t,” Cain said. “But he’s living different now. And you don’t go out and live different if you don’t want to be different. When a man is lost and down on his luck, he doesn’t remember who he is. Cas is trying to remember. And that’s more than can be said for most. Bottom line, Dean,” he added, finishing off his mug and pouring himself another, “if I get a second chance, then we all do. You, your brother.” He looked up from watching the rising level of tea in his cup, easing the lever on the jug. “Even him.”

Cain held his gaze, looking for some kind of acknowledgment. Dean eked out a nod. Cain returned it, and stepped back. Dean lowered the picnic jug to hang more naturally at his side. The two mugs left in his other hand clinked together when it tried to close itself into a fist.

“Tell Cas to come in after he finishes the section we discussed,” Cain said, circling past Dean. “I’m going back to the house. I’d better not find a body out there later,” he said. He seemed at least half serious.

 Dean leaped a joke over the frog in his throat. “What, you don’t want free fertilizer?”

Cain slowed long enough to give him a very dry look before heading home with long strides.

Dean hesitated before starting a steady walk in the opposite direction. It wasn’t easy to admit, but Cain was right. And Colette. He had to at least give Cas a chance, for Sam’s sake if no one else’s. Not like he lived in a glass house or anything.

The man in question was still working, kneeling and digging for rocks, then moving farther along to search for more. He was busy but Dean wasn’t trying to be subtle, and was the tallest thing for many yards in any direction besides, but Cas didn’t seem to notice him. When he got closer it was clearer why: dude was wearing white headphones, fancy ones, the kind that cushioned your ear and sounded like a dream. Even as Dean watched Cas pried up a rock, big enough it required two hands to lift and carry over to a wheelbarrow. Despite himself Dean traced the surprising amount of muscle in the man’s arms, squeezing until the jug’s plastic handle was digging into his palm. Cas’s jeans pulled tight across his thighs when he knelt back down.

It wasn’t until Dean was virtually on top of him, his shadow pouring over the ground where he was concentrating, that Cas stood. He wiped his face with the bottom hem of his old black shirt, revealing sharp hipbones and small dark trail of hair. Dean snapped his eyes upward when he noticed himself following it. (But christ it’d been a long time since he’d fucked a guy. Sioux Falls was getting better, but the older he got the less interested he was in rolling the dice.) When Cas dropped the shirt it had a very faded graphic, an album cover from The Clash. _Give_ _‘Em Enough Rope_.

Then Dean’s gaze lifted to Cas’s face, and he blinked.

It was one thing to see the man in the dim light of the Roadhouse, but a whole different experience seeing him in the sunlight. He was tan from working outside, dirt smudged on one of his his cheekbones, the edge of his strong jaw, dark hair spilling over his forehead and slightly damp with sweat. Dean was tempted to get a little poetic and think that the wide, endless sky brought out a bright blue in his eyes, but he wondered whether it was rather the other way around.

Cas slid off his headphones, which curled around his neck. “Dean?”

He opened his mouth without thought. “Are you doing fucking farm work in a vintage band tee?”

Cas looked down at this own chest and back up. “I only own so many clothes.”

“I’m sure you sleep on a big pile of money, go buy some.”

“You might be surprised how few royalties I was left with when Garrison terminated my employment. And I suppose you might have some idea how expensive good rehab is.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, one of which had his headphone cord snaking out of it. “That for me?”

It was Dean’s turn to look down, suddenly remembering Colette’s tea. “I’m not here for you, if that’s what you were thinking,” he blurted.

Cas tilted his head.

“I mean, this is for you,” he said, holding up the jug, “but I was just here to look at the tractor. Cain says to come in when you’re done with the section.”

“It’s almost done.” Dean held out his hand, making sure the untouched mug was closest to him. Cas took it, and allowed Dean to keep the jug steady while he flipped the lever for a drink. “Thank you.” When his mug was full he took the jug and returned the favor, then balanced it near the rim of the barrow, between a couple rocks. “So,” Cas said, “a musician, a cook, and a mechanic. Jack of all trades.”

“Don’t forget bartender.” They clinked mugs and drank. Dean had thought Cas had turned off his music, but a sudden swell of tinny noise from his headphones made him realize it’d just been quiet. “What are you listening to?”

“Hans Zimmer’s score to _Interstellar_ ,” was the prompt reply.

“Dude,” said Dean, “really?”

“Why not?” Cas shrugged. “I don’t wake up in the morning looking forward to picking rocks, but I find that with the proper application of music, any banal thing can be turned into something…precious. Even beautiful. Here,” he said. He finished off his tea and put it next to the jug. Then he ducked out from under his headphones and slipped the ipod out of his pocket. “I assume you’ve visited the Mullens a hundred times?”

“I guess.”

“Then I’m sure it’s been a while since you’ve really looked around. Try it.” He held out the equipment, orchestral music still spilling from it. When Dean hesitated, he wiggled it a little. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, then we can walk back together.”

In the end Dean took it, thinking back to how Cas had listened to Sam and Dean’s song, eyes closed, small beatific smile on his face. A man who hears music like he does must know what he’s talking about, at least some of the time. The headphones smelled of Cas’s sweat, which would usually have Dean running for Purell. But it wasn’t the stale kind Dean was used to, drunk rock stars and fans stinking of alcohol and weed, grimy mechanics swimming in oil and old coveralls, or detoxing junkies shaking the drugs from their pores. Just good, clean sweat from hard work and a trace of the soap the Mullens sold under CC’s Bees. So he settled for a cursory wipe with his own t-shirt, and put them on.

The headphones really were good quality. Ambient noise cut off immediately, replaced with a ticking sound that filled his whole head. Other instruments softly came in, mimicking the steady beat. Cas bent back to work, and Dean turned on his heel, considering. He watched the breeze ruffle the grasses outside the tilled area, bending and swirling in a murmuration. The tempo picked up, the orchestra beginning to swell. A mouse darting a foot away. The barn and the farmhouse beyond it, one red the other yellow, stood tall against the backdrop of the open prairie sky, a sky so vast Dean could barely comprehend it in that moment, expansive and all-encompassing like a canvas stretched across their little world, but fragile as a robin’s egg, a thin membrane between the life below and the nothingness above. The ticking reasserted itself over the orchestra and two blackbirds flew by, wings beating in time. Dean followed their progress as they darted overhead, the sudden, massive organ chords somehow perfectly anticipating when they lifted themselves higher, spiraling  away. There was movement everywhere, now that he really looked, and every part of it played out in front of him like a piece choreographed just for him. Cas, too: bending, digging, muscles cording, sweat dripping, every blink of his eyelashes. Even when the music ebbed, a piano tripping along in quiet contemplation, Dean saw it. The dirt Cas speared with his fingers. The worm he set aside, which curled in confusion before slinking away.

Dean had seen the movie, too. He knew this music had been written to express the mysteries of space and time. Applied to rural South Dakota, though? It elevated the mundane and the chaotic into something with meaning just beyond human thought, but still immediate, alive, connected. Dean liked where he lived but feeling so immersed in it made him appreciate it more. Cas had been right. If Dean had chosen music he would’ve gone for some fun classic rock, which would have distracted him from the task to make it easier to bear. This music forces you to own it. Experience it.

Dean flicked the lock off the ipod and shut it down. The music stopped abruptly mid-chord. “Want this back?” Dean called.

Cas hefted up a few small rocks and shook his head. “You can put it in the bag if you’re done.” He dropped his findings into the wheelbarrow and lightly kicked a pack underneath its shade.

Dean drank the last of his tea. He set his mug next to Cas’s on the rocks, then knelt to open the bag. He snorted. There were a couple of empty water bottles and a tube of sunscreen, but it was mostly a jumble of music paraphernalia, snarled cords and at least a couple more ipods. He tucked the one he was holding in with the rest and flipped the cover back over the whole shebang. “Need any help?”

“No,” said Cas, and Dean winced as he piled several small rocks into his t-shirt, which he was holding out as makeshift basket. “This is the last of it, I think. If you could get the other wheelbarrow, though?”

A few yards away sat another wheelbarrow, so full the rocks were somewhat precariously balanced on top. Instead of answering Dean just went to get it, and together they pushed their loads past the tilled earth and into the grass, then toward the barn where a large pile of rocks was already sitting. They’d likely sort them later and see if anyone needed them for landscaping or other projects.

Neither of them said a word until they walked around the front of the farmhouse and the Impala came into view. “Ah,” said Cas. “You drive the black beauty from the Roadhouse. I’d wondered.”

“She’s my pride and joy,” said Dean. And because he’d actually meant to speak to Cas for a reason, damnit, “Bobby said you drive a classic, yourself.”

“Mr. Singer? I suppose his place is where you normally use your skills as a mechanic. Colette told me it was the best place in the area for a car like mine.”

“Damn right,” Dean agreed. He picked up his toolbox from where he’d left it, and circled his car. “He mentioned it’s been a few months since you’ve been in,” he said, opening his trunk. “Let me know if you want a check up. I’d love to take a look at her.” Which wasn’t even a lie, really. He put his toolbox in and closed the trunk.

“His name is the Funkbird.”

Dean stopped in his tracks on his way back around to the driver’s side, hand paused mid-caress on Baby’s roof. The wind chimes tinkled in something like laughter. “I don’t even know where to start with this. The _Funkbird_? And cars are ladies, Cas, everyone knows that.”

Cas smiled, crows’ feet deepening around his eyes. Clearly didn’t feel an ounce of shame, the heathen. “Well mine is a gentleman, and his name suits him.”

Dean couldn’t help a chuckle. “You’re a sick man, Castiel Novak. But I guess I can reserve judgment until I see him.” He opened the driver’s door and had one boot in the footwell before Cas stopped him.

“Dean?” He fiddled with the strap of his bag, face turned solemn.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for overstepping my bounds the other day.”

Dean breathed out, a bit uncomfortable. The CAS REMIX felt like a pulsing presence behind him, hidden though it was in his glovebox. Besides, between that and listening to his music of choice out in the field, Dean couldn’t quite see Cas as a threat anymore. Not necessarily trustworthy, but unlikely to whisk his brother off to California in the middle of the night. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Not sure why you stopped in the middle of the song, though.”

“Because that’s not what I was there for.”

“Sure, except I did ask you to show me what you heard.”

“True,” said Cas, running a hand through his hair. It stuck up in a delightfully tousled look. “But all those reasons you’re wary of me?”

Dean raised his eyebrows, prompting him to continue.

“Maybe I’m wary of me, too.”

Neither of them looked away from each other, letting the moment settle heavily between them.

“See you around, Cas,” Dean said at length. Cas gave him a desultory wave, backing up a few steps before turning to go inside the house. Dean slammed his door shut and carefully maneuvered the Impala back through all the gravel, listening to the crunch under the tires, the soft tinks of tiny rocks hitting the undercarriage. When he reached asphalt he pushed in the cassette tape and AC/DC blasted from the speakers. Dean put the pedal to the metal and grinned: Hans Zimmer might be great for picking rocks, but rock would always be the right pick for the open road.

***

Later that day found Cas driving the Funkbird to the Roadhouse. He was pretty sure from what Sam had mentioned that the house band played most nights, and he wanted to see them perform. Indulging that desire was against his better judgment, but something about Dean standing in the middle of a field listening to his music, a soft look of wonder on his face, had melted the fear dogging him since the day he’d picked up that bass. And Dean really hadn’t seemed that upset about what he’d done anyway. So it should be alright that he’s hear just to listen to their covers. He hoped.

Cas parked his car, smiling at the sight of Dean’s Baby in the far corner. She really did look like a lady next to all the old trucks and junkers in the lot. He made sure his own car doors were locked and patted him on the hood before going in the bar.

The first of the night crowd had already arrived, but it was empty enough his attention was first caught by the stage, where the house band was leaning their heads together. A guitar was slung forgotten over Dean’s back, and Billie had her leather jacket hanging from one finger and tossed over her shoulder. Jo was gesturing about something with a bar rag still in her hand. Ash was sitting on an amp with one knee drawn up, twirling a drumstick. Then he pointed his stick at Cas, and the others looked over. He cleared his throat and beelined to the bar before he could see the rest of their reaction.

Cesar was behind it this time, setting up clean glasses for the coming rush. “What can I get you?”

“I don’t know if you remember when I was here with Sam, but he ordered us a beer that I liked…”

“Roadhouse lager,” Cesar supplied. His lips quirked in an understated smile. “Ellen and I have a microbrew in back. Short or tall?”

“Well it’s very good,” said Cas. “Tall, please.”

Cesar nodded and grabbed a glass, pulling from a nearby tap. “Between Jesse” —he indicated the man serving someone at the other end of the bar, the same one who’d been working with Cesar Cas’s first night at the Roadhouse— “and the Partridge Family back there, we have plenty of willing taste testers to make sure we get it right.”

Cas chuckled obligingly and looked back at the band. He was glad to see that they were speaking to each other again, and that his presence hadn’t unduly disturbed them. When he looked back Cesar just finished pulling his beer, but he paused when Jesse placed a hand on his shoulder and stepped up to speak in his ear. Cesar leaned in to listen. Cas was just close enough to hear the exchange.

“I’ve gotta bring up another keg from the basement but a big party just came in,” he said.

To Castiel’s surprise, Cesar brought his free hand up and briefly squeezed the one Jesse still had on his shoulder. “Go, corazón, I’ll be fine.” Jesse nodded, trusting Cesar’s word, and strode into the back. Cesar slid Cas’s beer over and leaned on the bar, looking him right in the eye. “Problem?” It was very clearly implied that if there were, he’d be more than happy to escort Cas outside.

“Not at all,” Cas replied honestly. _Just surprised_. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed Cesar had a plain wedding band on his left ring finger. “How long have you been married?”

Taking him at face value, Cesar stood back up. “Since June 2015.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said. Then he nodded toward the stage. “You can go talk to them, you know. They’re just arguing over the setlist like every night. I’m sure they’d be glad for the distraction.” With that, he went on to serve a couple of women who’d come up to the bar.

While it was highly unlikely that the Roadhouse was any kind of gay bar, the fact that the Harvelles employed a gay couple and apparently let them be open about it—well, Cesar and Jesse didn’t seem the type to be overly demonstrative, which probably helped uncomfortable people turn a blind eye to it, but they definitely weren’t hiding, either—it made Cas rethink his first interaction with Dean, and also made him reassess if he really had been checking Cas out when he’d found him in the Mullens’ field. In other circumstances he’d consider pursuing it, but given their tenuous peace he should probably let it lie…

Regardless he took Cesar’s advice and headed toward the stage. Ash waved when he saw him approaching, but headed into the back. Jo had jumped in and was taking drink orders from a group that had pushed a couple tables together, probably that party Jesse had spoken of. So it was just Dean, guitar slung back round to his front, and Billie, jacket still over her shoulder. She held out her hand. “We haven’t met properly. I’m Billie.”

“Cas.” He took her hand and shook. There was none of Jo’s threat in it, nor Sam’s welcome. More a calm assessment.

“That coat makes you look like a flasher,” said Dean in lieu of a greeting.

Billie rolled her eyes. “Nice, Dean.”

“Well he does!”

Cas plucked one side of his open trenchcoat with his free hand and looked down at his outfit. It was just a Run-DMC shirt and jeans underneath. “It gets cold at night, still.”

“It’s not _because_ you’re wearing a jacket,” said Dean, “it’s the whole—” He waved his hand up and down.

“Forgive him,” said Billie. “He doesn’t have manners."

Cas shrugged. “He accused me of far worse the first time we met, so.”

Billie laughed while Dean sputtered. “Better watch yourself, Dean, you’ve caught a live one.” She brushed past him toward the kitchen door. “Enjoy the show, Cas.”

“What do you mean _I_ _’ve_ caught—?! _Sam_ caught—!” tried Dean, but she was already gone. Dean rolled his eyes, then. “I guess your shirt is good, though.”

“Thank you,” said Cas. “But before I sit down…is it alright I’ve come?”

“Well,” said Dean, “you do know it’s just covers, right? Sam ain’t even here.”

“I know. But I’ve come to hear you.”

Dean snorted. “I’m not Barbara Streisand, buddy. I didn’t just step off a bus in the big city looking for stardom, alright?”

“That’s good,” Cas replied, “because I didn’t come here looking for the next big thing.” He paused, watched Dean’s fingers moving lightly on the guitar’s neck, his thumb running back and forth along the edge in a—probably unconscious—suggestive caress. Cas took a chance and added, “Even if I found it anyway.” His mouth curled up on one side, just enough of a hint to let flirtation be read there, if Dean was looking for it.

Dean was startled into a laugh. “Dude. You think you can handle me?” The wording was just ambiguous enough to give Cas ideas. “You think I don’t know your kind? Middle management? You think I don’t know what scouts wrote about me to the higher ups? If that’s what you’re here for I can save you the trouble. You don’t even have to get to know me. I’ll write your report for you now, if you want.”

“Mm,” said Cas, drinking some beer. “Please do.”

“Okay,” said Dean. He settled onto an amp and, one elbow on the body of his guitar, began ticking off his fingers. “Doesn’t work well with others. Never does what he’s told. Angry. Drinks too much. Doesn’t give a shit about our numbers and demographics. And just when we think we’ve finally got him under control?” Dean leaned forward. “He takes it all. Too. Far.”

“Regardless I recommend him for signing,” said Cas, stepping into Dean’s space. Even with the added few inches of the stage, Dean was shorter than him sitting on the amp. He used his height to loom a little this time, just enough to make Dean look up at him. “Because boy, can he play guitar.”

Dean gaped. His eyes were muddied under the poor lighting—what Cas wouldn’t give to see them as he’d seen them that morning, a rich spring green—the surprise in them was nevertheless sweet. Cas didn’t stop his smile this time, wide and content with his victory.

Dean crossed his arms. “Don’t—don’t David Bowie me.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

Ash clambered up the stage, carrying a turntable and other equipment, maybe pedals. They both watched for a moment before returning their attention to each other. “Go sit your ass down, Cas,” said Dean. He still sounded flustered; Cas wondered if he was blushing at all? Dean stood and took off his guitar, setting it in its stand. “You got that, Ash?”

“I’m letting Jo touch my drums for this, my man,” Ash said. “I hope you’re happy.”

Cas smiled as their bickering continued and found himself a small table near the stage. The bar was filling up behind him, and soon enough Ash and Dean had all the equipment up and running. Jo shook her hair out of her ponytail and hopped onstage, though she didn’t go for Ash’s drums. Billie was the last to join them, and she brought them all a bottle of beer. After another minute’s conferring, Dean donned his electric guitar and found Cas in the crowd. He pointed at him, and without a word he hit a chord, causing everyone’s conversations to pause. When the first strains of “Ziggy Stardust” flowed through the amps, Cas laughed.

The rest of the set was more along the lines of last time, mostly classic rock with a few of the more popular nineties and early 2000s hits, like the perennial “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It wasn’t until a couple hours into the night after one of the band’s short breaks that Jo got behind the drum kit and Ash took up his post by the turntable. It took a moment for Cas to recognize the song as Incubus, though, because they jumped right into the first verse with the lilting guitar.

“Meet me in outer space,” Dean sang.  
“We could spend the night,  
Watch the earth come up.  
I’ve grown tired of that place  
Won’t you come with me?  
We could start aaa-GAI-AIN!”

The band crashed into the chorus, and Cas was transported by the earnest feeling. It was a love song, but not for him, he knew. It was for Hans Zimmer, and the farm, and for letting music rearrange your world. Not only had Dean understood what Cas had been trying to show him, but Sam had been right all along.

Dean’s dream was still alive. And if he ever asked for help with it, Cas planned to be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music this chapter:
> 
> AC/DC - [Back in Black](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFbnyftPHAQ)  
> The Clash - [Give 'Em Enough Rope](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2CD03nlAO4)  
> Hans Zimmer - [Interstellar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTIKaJijNW4)  
> Run-DMC - [Rock Box](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WA-zaE6aevs) [as example]  
> David Bowie - [Ziggy Stardust](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8R_u3Yfwcs)  
> Nirvana - [Smells Like Teen Spirit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JirXTmnItd4)  
> Incubus - [Stellar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKYGZxPF0yA)
> 
> And bonus poem:
> 
> Robert Burns - [To a Mouse](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33)


	3. Drunk

After that weekend, Cas tried to make the band’s show whenever he could. Now that planting had begun and the bees were waking up, there was more work than ever to do on the farm. Sometimes he was too tired, or sometimes, when he was manning the CC’s Bees stand at the farmer’s market himself, he usually elected to take the truck home right away. Still, he managed to go at least half the time, and the most interesting thing was…he was beginning to notice a change.  
  
Oh, they still played their Warrant and their Rolling Stones and their Heart, but more and more songs from later generations were creeping into the set list. Ash was setting up a greater variety of distortion pedals and instruments. Some songs were chosen, it seemed, just because one musician or another wanted to play it for sheer pleasure. But a few were far less the up-tempo, we’re-all-here-to-have-fun variety. Most of them were at Dean’s behest, Cas was certain, as he was the one who sang those, and they carried the darker bent that was closer to his original music: Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots. Some of the moodier nu-metal songs that weren’t released for singles from Korn or Manson. And the one night they ventured into even harder territory—in emotion as well as music—Dean screamed down the building doing Otep’s “Emtee” and the crowd went absolutely nuts. The next time Cas made it to a show, he could have sworn the Roadhouse was more packed than usual. Maybe he was imagining it.  
  
“You’re not imagining it,” said Sam the next Saturday at the market. Even on weeks he wasn’t in need of more honey, he would at least come to say hi. He looked through the bars of soap, periodically bringing one up to his nose. “Ellen has upped her delivery orders for the weekends, no joke.”  
  
“The bands having more fun with their set, instead of just trying to be fun for others. You know they’re all great but your brother is a born performer. Try the rosemary mint, it’s new.” Cas plucked a bar of it out of the basket.  
  
Sam took it and sniffed, nodding his approval. “That’s nice. I’ll take it.” He rummaged in his pocket for a few dollars. “Dean’s been kind of quiet about it, though.”  
  
Cas hummed and handed Sam his change. “How have your sessions been going?” Sessions being their word for whenever they discussed the times when Sam and Dean wrote music together. Cas had never been to another one; Sam had invited him again, but he’d demurred, saying he’d rather wait for Dean’s invitation. Sam had agreed, and not asked since.  
  
“More intense, I’ll admit.” He slipped the soap into his canvas bag. “Feels like we might be getting somewhere.” Sam’s smile was short, but hopeful. It must be hard on him, having to be patient with his stubborn brother while not even being allowed the release of performing covers with the band. “I know you don’t usually come in on market days if you don’t drive yourself, but Eileen and I are gonna go to the show tonight, and it’d be nice if you came out with us.”  
  
It was true that Cas hadn’t been planning on it, but the nights when Sam and Eileen were there were always the best. They had the habit of staying until closed and then helping the people actually on the payroll clean up, and with them Cas felt allowed to do the same. It was kind of like a party instead of work, people a little buzzed on beer or adrenaline or both, loopy from exhaustion, free with their laughter. Only Jo was still a bit stand-offish with him, as if he were an intruder in her family, or at least an unwelcome guest. She never sought to exclude him, though, and he had no doubt that if she really wanted him gone she’d make it so. And he did like spending with everyone. Cas might not be family, but he thought he could count himself a friend.  
  
But still, he had responsibilities. “Maybe,” said Cas.  
  
“It’s Memorial Day weekend, and Ellen always closed Sunday and Monday. If the Mullens can spare you tomorrow morning, I have it on good authority there might be some free drinks in your future.”  
  
“In that case,” said Cas.  
  
Sam was true to his word. After the last stragglers had been kicked out at two a.m., Ash held a beer aloft and jumped onto a table. “Let’s party!”  
  
“Let’s dance!” said Eileen.  
  
“Shots first,” said Jo, bringing bottles of liquor from out behind the bar. Jesse brought over a tray full of shot glasses.  
  
“I’m too old for this shit, so I’m headed out,” said Ellen. “Don’t burn the place down.”  
  
“You got it, ma,” said Jo. Ellen locked the front door behind her. Jo lined up the bottles, gin and vodka and tequila and rum. “Pick your poison.”  
  
“Where’s the damn whiskey?” asked Dean.  
  
“Right here,” said Cesar, adding a couple types to the collection, scotch and bourbon and even some Jack Daniel’s reserve.  
  
“Now we’re talking.”  
  
The rest of them pushed some tables together, leaving some space open for dancing and giving them all a place to sit. Before Cas could settle, though, Jo slapped her hand in front of a seat. “You, here.” Cautiously, Cas sat where he was told. Jo sat across from him and lined up a few shot glasses in front of them both. “You any good at holding your liquor?”  
  
Ah, finally. Jo was giving him a chance to prove himself. Seeing as she had to deal with very drunk people all the time, he was sure she didn’t actually want to see if he’d go until passing out. Regardless, he was willing to play along, because one of the many things that made Cas good at his old job was that very, very few people could drink him under the table. He just said, “We’ll see.”  
  
Jo grinned, sharp as the knives she wielded so well. “Yes we will.”  
  
A couple hours later, sure enough, of the people still drinking Billie was the only one giving him a run for his money. Sam and Eileen had switched to beer early on, and Cesar and Jesse not long after. Ash had switched to weed and was half-asleep in his chair, still holding a full beer. Jo and Dean were both strong contenders, but now the tough images they projected were flickering into nothing. Though they’d all been pacing themselves, those two were well on their way to sloshed. In the old days that would have meant it was time for him to start insinuating himself and prying for secrets. Instead, he focused on Billie.  
  
“Why are more people coming to your shows, do you think?” he asked her. “Is it that you’re playing more music from your own childhoods?”  
  
“Hmm,” she said. “I think so, yeah. You don’t hear it nearly as often anymore. Too old for the new stations, too new for the old stations.” She bobbed her head from one side to the other as she spoke. “Ain’t a lot of radio variety around here. You have to get over to the Cities or down to Omaha if you don’t want half the stations to be country.”  
  
“Pop country!” said Dean, knocking over two glasses in his outrage. “Not even good country! Just as, just as shitty as the overproduced shit in rock and Top For—Sammy, no!”  
  
Sam had come over and gathered as many liquor bottles as he could fit in his arms without dropping. “Yes, Dean. You’re cut off. All of you.”  
  
“You—you’re cut off,” Dean retorted. Jo found this very funny and hooted a great drunken laugh, falling onto Dean’s shoulder.  
  
Billie ignored them with what looked like long practice. She still acknowledged Dean’s point. “It is overproduced. You been to a rock concert recently?”  
  
“Other than yours?” said Cas. “No.”  
  
“Well I have,” she said. “Half of them sound ten times better than their album. The other half have cultivated a sound that just…is exactly the same. Not even worth price of admission.”  
  
“So technology is to blame?”  
  
“No!” cried Ash, and to Cas’s astonishment, fully opened his eyes for the first time. “Tech is good. It’s how you use it,” he said wisely, like a master imparting his secrets, “it’s _how you use it_ that matters.”  
  
Dean lit up. “Heh, that’s what she said.”  
  
Billie shook her head, half exasperated, half fond. “That doesn’t quite work, Dean.”  
  
“You don’t quite…work.”  
  
“Drink your water,” said Sam, who’d returned with a tray of it for everyone. Cas accepted his gratefully. He didn’t want to be too hungover in the morning. Thankfully Jo and Dean were suggestible enough that they had some without issue.  
  
“I think in production they just kinda,” Billie made a swooshing movement with her hand. “Smooth things out.”  
  
“Yeah, when’s the last time you heard an album that sounded raw? A rock album that sounded raw?” Jo demanded.  
  
“Between that and the guitar falling out of fashion in pop, and the increasing need for people to escape?” Billie shrugged. “It’s hard to find the same brand of honesty.” Her bandmates made known their agreement through vigorous nodding and loud exclamations, for all the world like a Greek chorus backing up the pronouncement of a goddess. A very bacchanalian chorus. “It’s rarer and rarer to hear the metaphysical side of music on mainstream radio. The everyday suffering that society sweeps under the rug. Is that all that makes us alive? What’s it like to face down death?” Billie stared Cas down, but these were questions he was well familiar with. He drank more water and nodded for her to go on. “When I think back to the rappers and rockers of my childhood, the ones who brought that darkness kicking and screaming into the light? The truth of living on the streets and parental abuse and overall shitty economics? Politics? Radio doesn’t want that raw honesty anymore. No edges. Commercial rebellion.” Her bandmates groaned. Jo dropped her head into her arms.  
  
Cas played devil’s advocate. “Between youtube and spotify and the rest of the internet, you can still find that sort of thing. You might have to dig for it,” he allowed.  
  
“I don’t think you get it,” said Billie. “Take nu-metal, for example.”  
  
“Ohhh, here it comes,” said Jo with glee, popping her head back up.  
  
“The crowds like the couple of songs we choose to play, but I guarantee if we mentioned it was nu-metal, we’d get laughed off the stage.”  
  
“Maybe,” said Cas. “I suppose it no longer carries a great reputation.”  
  
“It still didn’t in its own day, popular or no. Because ‘real’ rock fans said it wasn’t really metal, or even really rock. You know why?” Billie asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “These bands were pushing packaged pop off the tops of the charts, they should have been happy about it! But these guys took grunge and hip-hop and their parents’ metal and put them together. Hip-hop? In rock? Strike one. Like, for real? These little pissants have no idea who started the genre. Strike two: it was unflinchingly honest. You got a man like Jonathan Davis ending an album by singing a raw-ass song about how he was raped and then sobbing for minutes. How uncomfortable do you think that made people feel? And strike three: who were in these bands? White guys, yeah, but black guys, too. Asian guys. Latino. Mixed race. Rock had been whitewashed for decades and as soon as we push back?” She mimed it, pushed her hands forward into the air and then out. “The douchebags kept saying it wasn’t really rock, and before long history started to believe it. So you can dig for today’s version of all of that, yeah, but you didn’t used to have to.”  
  
“I see your point,” said Cas. “Still not too many women, though.”  
  
“Well, Cas,” she said. “Name me one genre of music that ain’t still sexist as fuck, Beyoncé or no Beyoncé.” Jo held her hand up above her head, and Billie obligingly highed her a five.  
  
“It’s not just nu-metal, though,” mumbled Dean. He was leaning on his hand and staring into his water glass, which was half-empty. “All the bands we used to open for? Not just me ‘n Sam, but me and the guys” —Cas assumed he meant The Vampirates— “no one talks about their work much. Not until one of them bites it. Then suddenly it’s open season and it’s Kurt Cobain all over again. I looked up to them, you know? It’s been over twenty years, but shit.” He leaned toward Cas, and poked a finger in his shoulder. “Their music is the stuff that really speaks to me. Today’s stuff is good but it doesn’t hit me here,” he tapped his chest, “or here,” his gut. “They didn’t just teach me how to play, they taught me how to fight. Showed me how to live. That’s why it hurts so fucking bad when they die, and I’m not, I’m not gonna be one of ‘em, okay Cas? Sammy ain’t either. Okay?” Dean poked his shoulder again, harder.  
  
Cas took his hand and removed it gently. “I understand, Dean. None of us want that.”  
  
“Well, good.” He pushed away from the table, half-stumbling. The chair screeched on the hardwood floor. “I’m gonna go.”  
  
Then everyone was up and running around, making sure Dean and the other drunk people weren’t about to drive away— “Yes, even you, Cas” —and used glasses were lined up on the bar, Ash snug in his back room, Jo and Billie giggling as they unfolded a cot to share in the kitchen. When things were relatively in order, Cesar and Jesse left and Sam and Eileen got ready to do the same. Sam shoved a bunch of blankets into Cas’s arms. “That means you and Dean get the pool table?”  
  
Cas looked at the blankets in disbelief, then back up at Sam.  
  
“You’ll be fine,” said Sam. “Just watch out for him, okay?”  
  
No need to say who ‘him’ was. The both watched as Dean, apparently aware of the protocol, rolled himself onto the pool table without prompting, and curled up with his back to them.  
  
“We’ll be back later to help clean up,” said Eileen.  
  
Then they said their goodbyes, and Cas made sure the door was well and locked behind them. The sun was beginning to rise, so he pulled the shades on the windows, too. Then he walked back across the bar, his footsteps heavy in the sudden silence. He must have been drunker than he’d thought, though, because when he situated himself next to Dean on the pool table, it really wasn’t that bad. He threw one blanket over Dean, and arranged the other over himself.  
  
Cas thought Dean had maybe fallen asleep, but after a moment he pulled the blanket tighter over his shoulder. “G’night, Cas,” he murmured.  
  
“Goodnight, Dean.”  
  
When he awoke a few hours later to Dean kicking in the kitchen door and yelling “Rise and shine!”, resulting in Jo shrieking and, by the sounds of it, throwing things, Cas tamped down his disappointment.

***

But when he was able to make to a show the next weekend, Cas wondered if he hadn’t been too hasty. Jo greeted him with actual warmth when he walked in the door, which was a surprise. She must have read it on his face, because she beckoned him to lean over the bar. After darting a look around the room to make sure of their privacy, she said, “You hold your drinks pretty good, but mostly you don’t hold ‘em like an asshole. And Dean said nothing happened that night even though you guys spent half the time ogling each other, so good for you! You’re a decent human being. And even kinda funny.” She pulled him a beer, but when he held out a five, she didn’t take it. “On the house.”  
  
Half in shock, Cas sat on the nearest barstool instead of at his usual table. He only got waves from the others instead of chitchat, but that was alright because then they were playing and it was as good as always, and then something strange: Nine Inch Nails, which they’d done before, but never this song. Not a single, or even off an album, just an EP. Dean was hurting, clearly, feeling dirty and sick and unable to reach out, but what was really strange was that Cas could swear the song was directed right at him.  
  
“Look through these blackened eyes,” Dean growled, “you’ll see ten thousand lies!”  
  
But then several songs later, a plea. The band went more esoteric than they usual traveled and went for Radiohead.  
  
“You want me?” Dean crooned. No instrument for him on this song, just his hands cradling the stand and his mouth on the mic. “Then come on and break the door down. You want me? Fucking come on and break the door down. I’m ready…”  
  
And that was the last song Dean took the lead on for the night.  
  
When the set was over, Cas pushed through the milling crowd and reached Dean right before he escaped behind the kitchen door. He put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around, but seeing Dean’s hunted look, he didn’t know what to say.  
  
After a few moments Dean licked his lips. “Look, Cas. I’m not ready for you to hear more of my music yet, but. Keep coming to the shows. Okay?”  
  
Cas heard that yet, and clung to it. “Okay.”  
  
***  
  
One day in late June, Cas tripped in the fields—probably on an animal’s burrow—and landed a little funny on his wrist. Colette pronounced it less than a sprain, but it was still frustrating because it was the only night of that week he was planning to go to the Roadhouse. He still decided to go, in the end, but was caught off guard when Dean shouted behind him.  
  
“If it ain’t Cas and the Funkbird!” He was exiting his own car, having just arrived himself.  
  
Cas startled and slammed his own door shut with the wrong hand, not thinking. He winced and sucked in a breath, drawing it to his chest. In the slightly shocky aftermath of the pain, Cas found himself blinking straight into Dean’s concerned eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked.  
  
“I fell on my wrist earlier. It’s barely even twisted, just twinged.”  
  
“Well geez, Cas, why aren’t you icing it? Come on.” Which was how Cas was allowed in the Roadhouse kitchen for the first time.  
  
It was mostly taken up by a large stove and grills and plenty of counter space, but between all that and the hallway leading to the back rooms, there was a small table where staff apparently took their breaks. This is where Dean parked Cas with a bag of ice and an admonishment to stay put.  
  
The bar was already busy, so Cas watched with interest as Ellen and Jesse slung burgers and Dean stayed busy at the stove, while Jo and Billie were in and out with trays and orders. So it was with some surprise that Cas noticed, while staring at Dean’s shoulders while he was stirring something at the stove, that this corner of the kitchen was very warm, and soft, and spicy, and…  
  
Dean turned around, holding two copper mugs. “A toddy will make it all better,” he said, setting one in front of Cas. “Sam told me how much you liked it.”  
  
“Mmm,” said Cas. “Mulled wine.”  
  
“Yeah, alright.”  
  
But Dean didn’t seem bothered. Cas took a cautious sip, loathe to burn his tongue and add insult to injury. He the mouthful sit, the layers of spice and citrus warming him to his core. “I swear this tastes even better than I remember.”  
  
“Hm?” said Dean as he swallowed down some of his own.  
  
“Did you do something to it?”  
  
“I might have added some brandy.”  
  
Cas smiled and adjusted the ice on his wrist. “And how does Ellen feel about messing with her recipe?”  
  
“Well, you know…” Dean shrugged, pink spreading high on his cheeks, and Cas didn’t think it was from the wine.  
  
“Unless this isn’t her recipe.”  
  
Dean looked up sharply. “How do you know it’s not Cesar’s?”  
  
“Because you would have just told me.”  
  
Dean opened his mouth, closed it. “Shut up.”  
  
Cas chuckled. Dean was fully blushing now, and it was damn adorable. Though that didn’t really explain anything. “Why is it so bad that people might know?”  
  
“Don’t act like you don’t know.”  
  
“Maybe I really don’t.”  
  
Dean shook his head, leaned out of the way when Jo came through with a big order. “Maybe there are parts of me that people don’t need to know about.”  
  
“If it’s something just for you, that’s one thing. But if you’re ashamed, that’s another.”  
  
“Ashamed? Nah,” Dean shrugged. “Long time ago, maybe. Even a few years ago at that. But I’m over it, I guess. Doesn’t mean I want to be waving a flag around, you know?”  
  
Cas felt a pump of adrenaline. The word choice was just too specific. This might be it, then. “I’m not picky about who I sleep with” —Dean’s gaze sharpened— “but I can barely boil water, so I hardly see what making mulled wine has to do with it.”  
  
“Stereotypes, you know,” said Dean faintly, his mind clearly somewhere else.  
  
As a test, Cas swallowed down more of his wine, and licked the corner of his mouth as if catching a stray drop. Dean’s eyes fell to watch it before they fluttered back up. Oh yes, Cas thought.  
  
Dean cleared his throat. “I-I’m not too picky either. Back in the wild days with The Vampirates, our manager Crowley—did you know him?”  
  
“I did meet him a few times. The best of the Hellfire staff, but in the end that’s not saying much.”  
  
Dean laughed. “You’re telling me. Anyway, he’d not just allow all our crazy shit, he would fucking facilitate it. One time, in a crowd of hundreds of people, he found some damn triplets and brought them backstage. Don’t know if he meant one for each of us, but, uh, they all came back to the bus with me.”  
  
Cas couldn’t help but be impressed. “I had a colleague who was very proud of his ménage à douze, but I can’t say I ever got anywhere near that achievement.”  
  
“It was interesting,” said Dean, scratching his neck. The blush was back. “Fun, for sure, but…that’s not really what I’m looking for anymore, you know?”  
  
“Ah,” said Cas sagely. “Quadruplets.”  
  
“Fuck off,” said Dean, but he was smiling.  
  
Dean then launched into more tales from the the road, and his career-that-wasn’t, and Cas shared some tales of his own.  
  
“Why was Garrison so against their people getting married?” Dean asked, getting each of them a refill on the wine. “How’s your ice?”  
  
Cas lifted his wrist, displaying the ice bag, half melted. Dean put down the mugs and went off to make up a new bag. “There were lots of rules,” acknowledged Cas, loud enough that Dean could hear him over the ice being scooped together. “No fraternizing with  the artists. Though the artists could fraternize with each other, if they were both under contract with Garrison. But they couldn’t have kids, under a certain age. That was the biggest one.”  
  
Dean twisted the bag and tied it shut. “Wanted them to seem available to the public, huh?”  
  
“Got it in one,” Cas said. “Thank you, Dean.”  
  
Dean fussed with the bag on his wrist a little longer than necessary. Cas did nothing to discourage him. When he was satisfied he sat back in his chair and sighed into his wine. “I wish sometimes that the people at the top would worry a little bit more about the safety of their artists. It always comes down to money, doesn’t it?”

  
“Certain people in Garrison were very pleased when there was an increase in obsessive fan interaction,” Cas agreed. “They liked to encourage worship.”  
  
They contemplated their wine for a while, Dean no doubt thinking of his brother’s experience. Then he asked, “You ever fall for one of your clients?”  
  
Cas did have to think about it. It’s not that he’d never found anyone interesting but what it came down to, was that it was “Never enough to break the rules.”  
  
“Never?”  
  
“Never,” he confirmed. Then Cas leaned forward over the little break table, and locked eyes with Dean, whose face was torn between guarded, and curious. “I make my own rules now.”  
  
Cas was close enough to hear the sharp intake of air as Dean’s breath caught. He fought the urge to trace the lines of his face, the curve of his cheekbones, the length of his nose, the bow of his lips. All those glorious freckles the summer sun had brought out. Instead he kept his gaze steady, challenging. Daring. This wasn’t about trying to suss out what Dean wanted as a musician anymore. Not at the moment. All that Cas cared about now was what Dean _wanted_.  
  
The door to the bar banged open, in typical loud Jo fashion. “Yo!” she said. “Let’s go, Dean.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Dean, not moving. Then, louder, “Yeah, I’m coming.” He looked over his shoulder and shooed her away. When she left, flipping him off as she let the door slam shut behind, Dean downed his wine, half stood up from the table, and grabbed Cas’s wine from his good hand and downed that, too—and here Cas had barely started in on that round. “You—” he said, plunking the empty mug next to the other on the table. He pointed at Cas. “You—make sure you watch the show.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Good. That’s—” Dean backed away, bumping into his chair and stumbling further toward the door. “That’s. Yeah. Good.” He groped for the door jamb behind him, and stumbled backward through the swinging door.  
  
Cas was a little too pleased to laugh…maybe a little too charmed by Dean’s sudden lack of grace. He pulled his empty mug back toward himself, and traced its lip.  
  
“Better get out there.”  
  
Cas startled, and saw Ellen standing over his shoulder.  
  
She handed him an opened bottle of beer. “They’ll start any minute.”  
  
As if on cue, a guitar shrieked into life.  
  
Cas took the beer.  
  
Slipping out the staff door, he saw that the Roadhouse was up to its usual crowd, if not a little busier. It didn’t bother him any; standing in the shadows to one side of the staff door, he was out of everyone’s way, and had a clear line of sight to the little stage, only several feet away. He awkwardly balanced the bag of ice in one hand, and his beer in the other.  
  
They played good music, the now usual mix of classic rock and pearls from their own childhoods. But nothing, Cas thought, that Dean had chosen for him. When the band took their short break in the middle of the set, Dean rushed over and took his empty beer bottle from his hand, and fussed over the mostly melted bag of ice.  
  
“I think it’s fine now, Dean,” said Cas, under the rumble of the crowd.  
  
Dean tossed the bag into a nearby trash can and cradled Cas’s wrist in his hands, gently turning the joint this way and that. “It doesn’t hurt?” he asked.  
  
Cas was barely paying attention, too focused on the freckles he could see dotting Dean’s nose. He really did like them. “I told you, not even a sprain.”  
  
Dean rubbed his thumb against his pulse. “Good,” he said, gruffly. Like it might have come out as sweet and awkward as Cas had heard him just before, but was deliberately trying to cover it up.  
  
Cas smiled. Dean would have to be very careful, or…he gently tugged his arm toward himself, and Dean’s hand came with it, and the rest of him followed—  
  
Laughter burst from a nearby table, and Dean jumped, releasing Cas’s wrist. “I need to drink something before going back up there,” he said. He went through the staff door and held it open, wanting Cas to follow, so he did.  
  
Ash was cracking open a tall can of some cheap beer, but the girls were downing water. Dean went to the stove to check on the wine, bolstering it up so there’d be enough for when anyone wanted more and didn’t join in on his bandmates’ chatter. He just poured Cas another Dark Toddy. “Still good?”  
  
Cas took it—in both hands, this time—and inhaled the fumes happily before drinking. “Still good,” he said.  
  
Dean set the ladle back by the pot. “Band conference!” he shouted. To Cas he said, “You take your drink and wait outside.”  
  
Cas raised an eyebrow, but complied, seeing a bit of a manic look in his eye. He settled himself back in his shadowy corner and surveyed the crowd. It was a bit less crowded as it was getting later, but most people were eating and drinking, which meant it was good revenue for the Roadhouse. He was privately, proudly pleased that he saw a few of the tell-tale copper mugs dotted throughout the bar, noticeable for the way they glinted under the neon. Since Dean had made a full pot, Cesar was selling it at the bar.  
  
When the band came back out, Dean breezed by without saying anything, which was disappointing, until Cas noticed that all three of the other band members were giving him _looks_. As they settled back with their instruments, Dean very deliberately never turned to look at Cas, his back squarely toward him as they got ready. Not that it was a bad view, all things considered, but the man was up to something.  
  
Jo went behind the keys, for this one, and without further ado the band launched into some Scissor Sisters, with Billie singing lead. “I can’t decide whether you should live or die…”  
  
Dean still performed well, of course. But Cas had been watching Dean play for a while now, and he could tell there was a certain nervous energy, maybe an anticipating air about him. And still, he wouldn’t look over at Cas.  
  
Several songs later, Dean addressed the remaining crowd through the mic. There were mostly drinkers, now, as the kitchen had just closed. “We’ve got one more for you tonight,” said Dean. “Something  a little different, by World Without Sundays. It’s called ‘Drunk’.”  
  
Those paying attention clapped, and Dean turned and nodded at the others. He strummed his guitar and Ash hit his drums; rest.  
  
And finally, Dean looked at Cas.  
  
“If I told you I was drunk,” he crooned,  
Drunk on your smile  
Wasted on your eyes  
And most of your wine  
Would you be kind—”  
  
Drums; rest.  
  
“To someone so shy?”  
  
Cas ached at the hint of vulnerability Dean let through in that moment.  
  
“And take advantage  
Of me tonight?  
Because I, I swear,  
I wouldn’t mind…”  
  
Dean was fully into the song now, the band following his lead, moving with the slow groove, the unsteady beat that mirrored an elevated heart. Cas’s hand curled around his cup, squeezing, wanting so badly to rip the mic from Dean’s hands and tell him right then and there that he was in no way someone that would just do for Cas, and he was hardly drunk enough to settle anyway, but then—then—!  
  
Another rest, the whole bar seemed quiet but for Ash counting the beats with his drumsticks, and Dean crooned into his mic in falsetto. A gorgeous, gorgeous falsetto that floated like the sea of drunken wine the lyricist must have dreamed of, a few people shouted out in the crowd, and when Dean relinquished the mic and let his guitar take over the thread of longing, Cas knew, knew that in this moment Dean was giving him more than he’d given anyone in a long time.  
  
When the song was over Dean didn’t even put his guitar in the stand. He shoved it at Jo, who took it with a roll of her eyes, and stepped directly into Cas’s space, their noses barely brushing.  
  
Cas pulled at his collar and tugged him in the rest of the way. They kissed, hot and wet and full of orange and spice.  
  
“You’re not actually drunk right now, are you?” Cas asked when they came up for air.  
  
“No. You?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good. Come back to mine?” Dean asked.  
  
“Yes,” said Cas.  
  
Dean kissed him again once, twice, then ripped himself away to peek into the kitchen. “Ellen, can I—”  
  
“Get the hell out of here, Dean!” Cas heard her call, and he laughed. Dean just shrugged, unrepentant, and kept his hand on the small of Cas’s back all the way out to the car. The Impala, of course, since Dean was driving.  
  
The ride back to Dean’s apartment was like a dream; the music was low and unobtrusive, and Cas spent half his time looking at Dean, and the other out the window at the bright moon and the myriad stars, which faded the closer they got to the light of Sioux Falls.  
  
Dean’s place was on the third floor. They pounded up the stairs, shushing each other for the neighbors’ sakes, and giggling their way through Dean unlocking the door. Cas barely had a moment to take in the tidy little studio before he was pulled back into Dean’s arms, then onto the bed. There was something so freeing about being able to touch Dean as they rolled around, pulling off his shirt and tracing the tattoos, digging his fingers into his back, sucking on his tongue. For so long he’d watching him move, heard him sing, always holding back his own thoughts and actions, but now—! He devoured Dean with his mouth, his hands, with his whole body, pressing Dean onto his back and pushing with his hips.  
  
To be touched by Dean was almost more divine; those clever musician’s fingers easily making short work of Cas’s jeans, slipping under his boxers and squeezing his ass, then sneaking around the front to pull out his cock, and take both of them in hand. The mess inside both their heads was difficult but this, this was easy, and it wasn’t long before they followed each other over the edge. Then they were slowing down, calming down, but still kissing, kissing, kissing, until the traces of wine were gone and all they could taste was each other.  
  
“Shame I won’t see you ‘til next week,” said Dean, after they’d cleaned up and settled back into his bed. “I wouldn’t say no to more of that. You know, if you want.”  
  
Cas smiled as they turned to each other under the covers. “Well, I still haven’t taken you up on that offer to look at my car.”  
  
“Awesome,” said Dean. He tucked himself under Cas’s arm and heaved a sleepy sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music this chapter [some of these have darker themes so if you're not sure, ask]:
> 
> Warrant - [Cherry Pie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I88Izbmrxq4)  
> The Rolling Stones - [Paint It, Black](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1uIM2nPocE)  
> Heart - [Magic Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vlAdMeZSfw)  
> Soundgarden - [Fell on Black Days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UtO-YNBNAL4)  
> Marilyn Manson - [Minute of Decay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JP8Fv_54JE)  
> Otep - [Emtee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aB-3kG9XO-c)  
> Korn - [Daddy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQZodBV39F4) [TRIGGER WARNING for rape. No joke people.]  
> Audioslave - [Show Me How to Live](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gquZ01Yrhzg)  
> Nine Inch Nails - [Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DzkBmJGGwdA)  
> Radiohead - [Talk Show Host](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUZxOlsJpVk) [I actually could not find the cool version I own on youtube, but this one is good.]  
> Scissor Sisters - [I Can't Decide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buYrBbwyCGE)  
> Beecake's cover of World Without Sundays - [Drunk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4aTNI7pw-U) [Live video. Love this version. Shout-out to Billy Boyd.]


	4. The Longest Time

That Tuesday, Dean pulled up to the little cabin on the far edge of the Mullens’ property to find Cas kneeling in his garden. The blooms were plentiful, and the tomatoes were crawling up the poles he’d set there for the purpose. Cas didn’t turn to acknowledge him, though, and when he got out of the car he saw why: he was wearing his headphones again, those expensive white ones, which stood out starkly against his hair.

Dean walked closer, boots crunching over gravel, then sinking softly into grass. The house looked like it had recently been repainted, though the porch was a little saggy. But between that fresh coat and all the flowers, it was clear Cas was caring for the place. Dean watched him work, maybe a little longer than was polite. Saw how just like before, he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, going through the garden, clearing what needed to be cleared.

“Cas,” he said, not quite shouting. Cas startled, and pulled off his headphones. To Dean’s surprise, metal was spilling tinnily from the speakers. He meant to ask about the Funkbird, but, “What are you listening to?”

Cas smiled knowingly and handed the headphones over. Dean took them and popped them over his ears.

He couldn’t understand a word.

“What is this?” he asked, half-pulling them off his head to hear the answer.

“German. It’s Rammstein. A little of my own nineties nostalgia.”

“Right, can you even understand it, though?”

Cas leaned in to hear where the song was. Dean didn’t mind.

The chorus had a woman singing, heavily produced, until the last line was sung in the very deep, masculine voice of the lead singer.

 _Erst wenn die Wolken schlafen gehen_  
_Kann man uns am Himmel sehen_  
_Wir haben angst und sind allein_  
_Gott weiss ich will kein Engel sein_

“Gott weiss ich will kein Engel sein,” Cas spoke with the song. He gently took the headphones from Dean’s hands. “God knows I don’t want to be an angel.”

Dean took him in, bright eyes, thick stubble, and pulled him flush with his chest, sweaty and dirt-smudged shirt and all. “Me neither,” he whispered into his lips, and kissed the chuckle out of Castiel’s mouth.

They must have kissed for a while, because the next thing he knew, a new song was playing softly from the headphones, clutched in Cas’s hands over Dean’s shoulders. “Oh right,” said Dean. “’Du Hast’.” When Cas went in for another kiss, Dean leaned back a bit. “What about the car?” he asked.

“The car can wait,” Cas growled, and yeah. It definitely could.

***

An hour later found them in Cas’s bed on their backs, panting. Their breaths had almost completely slowed when the radiator kicked on with a clank and a hiss. Dean startled and turned his head to look at Cas. The man was clearly used to it, because he was relaxed, eyes closed, a faint smile dancing around his lips. Dean wiped the lube off his hand on the sheet and kicked it the rest of the way off the bed.

“Hey,” said Dean. “What the hell else is in your drawer?”

Cas hummed and stretched his arms, lifting his torso off the bed to very nice effect. “Hm?”

“You keep your junk drawer in your nightstand?”

Cas cracked open his eyes and squinted at him. “No? Just things I might need in bed?”

“Dude,” said Dean, “I had to dig all the way to China for your supplies.” Post-orgasmic glow officially interrupted, Dean propped himself up on his elbow, back to Cas, and reached for the drawer. “Object now, because I’m going in.”

“Suit yourself.” Cas sounded amused.

Permission more or less given, Dean tugged open the top drawer. There were a couple small notepads, several pens, but mostly electronics. Music-based electronics. Two discmans, at least as many ipods, a few cheap pairs of headphones, plenty of cords, and best of all— “Sweet. Besides Ash, you’re the only other person I know except me who still appreciates a walkman. Welcome to the Awesome Club.”

“Mm, thank you. Does that mean I have to start dressing like a lumberjack?”

“Shaddup,” said Dean without turning, smiling to himself to hear Cas’s lazy chuckle. He leaned farther over the drawer, picking apart the cords in curiosity. Untangling some earbuds, a small black cord popped free, a single plug branching off into two jacks. Dean sat up and twirled it in his fingers. “What’s this?” he asked.

Cas rolled onto his side toward him and propped his head up on his hand. “Lets two people listen to the same device without sacrificing stereo.”

“Two headphones?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it doing in your nightstand?”

“Got caught with the rest, I suppose,” Cas sighed. “I used to use it before the bed ever came into the picture. It can be intimate sharing music that way; the headphones cut out all other noise, and the music is only something the both of you can hear, like you’re communing in a hive mind. For two.”

“You seduced people,” Dean concluded, “using a Vulcan mind meld.”

“If you like.” Cas quirked half a smile, but Dean could see it was bringing up old memories.

He looked back down at the cord. That actually sounded really fun. And it couldn’t really be more intimate than sex, right? “Didn’t think to use it on me, huh?” he teased.

Cas’s smile turned wicked. “Didn’t need to.” Dean smacked his chest with the back of his hand. Cas caught it in retreat, and used it to pull himself upright. Then he wrapped his arms around Dean and hooked his chin over his shoulder, looking down at the cord. “It was also a good way to get a read on someone,” he said softly. He turned his head a little to nuzzle in the crook of Dean’s neck, and the rush of warm breath along his skin caused him to shiver. “You can learn a lot about them through their music. What album they were listening to at the time. Or later, whatever was in their mp3 library.”

Dean thought about it. “An album’s no sweat,” he said. “But you can’t judge a man by his ipod. You know sometimes music just kinda…ends up there.”

“Hm, sounds like something someone would say if they’re hiding their musical taste. Now what would Dean Winchester be ashamed of?” The bastard began tracing patterns on his stomach and sides, invariably finding all Dean’s ticklish spots, making him squirm. “Medieval madrigals? Puritan hymns? The soundtrack to _The Notebook_?” He picked a spot on Dean’s ribs and really dug in.

Dean yelped and elbowed him; Cas fell back laughing. “Oh, you’re on, you asshole. You’re on right fuckin’ now.” Dean tossed the cord at Cas and scrambled off the bed, looking for his pants. He found his boxer briefs first, so slipped those on quick. “Go get your good headphones, and a pair for me too. If you’re gonna judge me you’re gonna judge me on pure sound.”

Cas groaned and starfished on the bed before gathering up the gumption to jack-knife up and swing his legs over the side. Dean watched appreciatively as he bent over to pull up his own boxers, then padded out of the room. His jeans were just inside the bedroom; Dean crouched and dug through the pockets until he found his ipod. He unwrapped the fraying earbud cord and tossed it on top of his clothes pile. By that time Cas had returned holding two pairs of nice headphones, a black pair for Dean and the same white pair he’d been wearing outside for himself. By unspoken agreement they both sat on the bed, legs folded and facing each other. Cas rescued the connector cord from the twisted sheets and handed it to Dean, who in turn plugged it into his ipod (black, classic, 160GB for maximum music). Then he plugged in his headphones, grabbed Cas’s cord and plugged his in, too. They both donned their headphones, and watching Cas nestle his pair into his hair made Dean snort. “Carpet matches the, ah, equipment, I see.”

Cas paused, hands still on his headphones, and looked down at his white boxers. “Well, at least my ipod isn’t inscribed with ‘Jerk’.” He nodded at the back of the device in Dean’s hands.

Dean shrugged. “Gift from Sammy. You ready for the Dean Winchester Experience?”

“Give it here,” said Cas imperiously, though the way he wiggled his fingers betrayed his eagerness. Dean had barely placed the ipod in his hand before he was navigating to the artist list. “Of course AC/DC is first. Why am I not surprised?”

“Pride of place,” Dean grinned.

Cas smiled but didn’t raise his eyes from the screen. He thumbed the wheel, its _click click click_ loud in the headphones. “Aerosmith, Alice Cooper, Alice in Chains, The Allman Brothers, what else…ah. Aretha.” A few more clicks, and piano notes unfurled in their ears.

“Really? This is what we’re going to listen to?” asked Dean, raising his voice to be heard over the song. “Two dudes?”

 _Looking out on the morning rain_ , Aretha crooned.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever resisted singing along to this chorus?”

“…Fair.”

They both smiled; then their faces melted back into neutral expressions, though they retained eye contact. It was actually really cool listening to a song, hearing its every nuance, and watching how another person reacted, knowing they were hearing the same thing. Dean could see the small movement in Cas’s eyes as he read Dean’s face in turn. Then the corner of his mouth lifted the slightest bit. Dean felt its echo rising in himself, and didn’t stop it. The music had sunk in its hooks. They started singing at the same time: “Before the day I met you, life was so unkind. You’re the key to my peace of mind. AND YOU MAKE ME FEEL!” They grinned as they sang—god, Cas looked like a dork—which, Dean supposed, made him a dork too—but there was really nothing like a man looking into another man’s eyes and going to town on a karaoke favorite. It was _fun_. “You make me feel like a natural woman…” By the time they reached the end of the song, they were both belting so loud it practically drowned out the music. They even sang through the fade out, tumbling into laughter as the next song started.

“Wait, wait,” Cas gasped, catching his breath. He paused the music and clicked back. “What’s next…”

Dean stretched his arms in a V and resettled. “Damn, that was good. You see her do that at the Kennedy Honors?”

“Of course.”

“Carole King, man, you know she’s good people because she was freaking the fuck out to have Aretha there singing a song she’d written. That is exactly what I would have done if I’d heard Aretha singing one of my songs.”

At this Cas looked up. “I saw her in concert once.”

“No shit?”

“I haven’t written a song in my life, but I was freaking out like that anyway just to be in her august presence.”

“Yeah right.”

Cas smiled so that his nose crinkled. “On the inside.” Turning back to the ipod, he clicked a few more times. “Ah, now this is a song I haven’t heard in the _longest time_.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help it; he snapped his fingers and jumped in right when Billy Joel started singing because he couldn’t _not_. It was hilarious to feel his posture change, and see Cas’s do the same thing, as if they were dancing around just like in the music video. Which—why not? He hopped off the bed and pulled Cas after him. Without missing a beat he followed Dean’s lead, and they stepped side to side, snapping, leaning toward each other, singing. Dean alternated which part of the harmony he sang, but kept laughing when Cas mouthed the high parts; the sight of a man who sounded like he gargled whiskey for breakfast having those delicate notes coming out of his mouth was _hysterical_. Then he laughed harder when he realized what they must look like from the outside: just a couple of dudes in their underwear swaying and snapping to, well, nothing, and singing very badly. He could see why Cas thought it was intimate. It was like they were spinning a world into existence between them.

There was no stopping after that. Cas gleefully explored Dean’s music, choosing songs that were upbeat, or made for good air guitar, or were otherwise fun to listen to. David Bowie was a must, of course (”Ah, _Labyrinth_ , not _The Notebook_.” “It’s a classic.”); they rocked out to Everclear and Fiona Apple and Foo Fighters and Foreigner. They belted with Green Day and Hole and Incubus; they grooved with Janis and jammed with Jimi. Cruising through Johnny Cash and Journey dropped them off into Kansas, Kiss, Kittie, and Korn; then Dean was vibrating with excitement because he knew they’d reached the Ls.

“Now this may be the least surprising of all,” said Cas. His voice was getting rougher from all the singing, though they’d gotten beers a few songs ago. “Led Zeppelin. And I’m guessing…” _click click_ “…yes, the entire discography.”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows. “Choose wisely.”

Cas looked him up and down, considering. “Actually, maybe we can save Zeppelin for later.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I have a feeling you could go on about them for hours, and if you wanted to put together a playlist of your top Zepp tracks, well, I wouldn’t complain. You can learn a lot from people’s playlists, too.” He winked.

Dean could feel a flush warming his face and pouring down into his chest. The thought of putting together his favorite Led Zeppelin songs for Cas and then sitting together and listening to them, just like this…god, Dean had never done anything like that before, with anyone. “O-okay. Another time.”

Cas smiled and kept scrolling. They went through Lou Reed and Skynard, Marilyn Manson and Meat Loaf, Melissa Etheridge and Muddy Waters, Neil Young and Nina Simone. Cas chose No Doubt and Offspring and Otep and then, of course, Prince.

“This is good. Very good,” said Cas.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think we could be friends anymore if you didn’t have Prince. A lack of Prince is a distinct lack of taste.”

“Of course I have Prince,” Dean scoffed. “First of all, like, Midwest represent. Also, did you ever see that man play a guitar? Rock. God.”

“More than once,” said Cas.

“Yeah, yeah. Rub it in, fancy music mogul. Just for that I demand you play ‘Kiss’.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s practically all falsetto and I want you to suffer.”

Unperturbed, Cas just smiled beatifically and pressed play. He shimmied to the opening riff and struck a pose at the rest.

“Wait, wait, I have to see this,” Dean laughed. The afternoon was fading into evening and the room was getting dark, so he went to the wall to flick the light switch. When he turned back around Cas was attempting to reenact some of the music video choreography, really moving his hips and—Cas wasn’t a performer. His moves would never be as smooth as someone like Prince. Cas was only ever going to come off as a dork, dancing like that, except…he was so unselfconscious, so unabashedly mouthing those high notes, practically showing off in his great body in those stupid white boxers that it just came back around again to sexy. So when Cas grabbed his hand, encouraging Dean to dance along, he didn’t question it. He just got his hips moving.

When the song ended they were flushed and panting and grinning like fools. Dean didn’t know how long they stood there in silence before Cas looked back at the ipod. It was hard to beat Prince, and Cas began choosing songs incrementally slower and softer, until they found themselves lying on their sides—the headphones were thick and cushioned enough to allow their heads to rest pretty easily on the pillows. By the time Cas chose Stone Temple Pilots they were no longer singing. Just watching each other as the music played.

 _I_ ' _m half the man I used to be, half the man I used to be…_

“Creep” was gritty and gorgeous at the same time, atmospheric, easily sinking deep through the ears and into the soul. Cas’s blue eyes were wide and increasingly sad, and when he reached up with his free hand to lightly trace Dean’s face, Dean knew he was thinking the same thing: Scott Weiland’s fate could so easily have been either of theirs.

The song ended on Weiland’s vocal, at once plaintive and resigned. Cas took a deep breath and woke the ipod up. “Something a little lighter, I think,” he muttered.

Dean said nothing, just watched, so he saw exactly when Cas’s face blossomed into a knowing smirk. “What? What is it?”

Cas just smiled wider and turned the ipod around so Dean could see the screen. Taylor Swift was highlighted. “This is what you’re embarrassed by, isn’t it?”

Shit, he’d completely forgotten. “Well what’s, what’s wrong with—what’s wrong with Taylor Swift?” he sputtered.

“Nothing,” said Cas. “Nothing at all, Mr. I Hate Modern Music. Mr. Nothing Good Plays on the Radio. Mr. What is with the Top Forty These Days—”

“Alright, alright,” said Dean.

“Mr. I’m a Manly Man Who Only Listens to Man Music—”

“That’s it!” Dean tackled Cas, bowling him over onto his back. They tussled for a bit, headphones half-tugged off their ears and the ipod lost somewhere in the shuffle. Cas didn’t give up after too long, though, too busy laughing at Dean, damnit. “You suck,” Dean informed him.

Cas’s smile fell and he blinked up at Dean, confused. “But I thought last time it was you who did the sucking.”

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up wiseguy,” said Dean as Cas laughed some more. “Let’s see how much you’re laughing when we listen to your ipod, huh?” His stomach rumbled. “After you feed me.”

“Oh, I have to feed you, now?”

“I’m gonna need to be at full strength to properly insult you.”

“Then you really must be starving.”

Dean growled and gave him a quick, hard kiss. “Shut up.” He untangled himself from his headphones and slipped out of bed, careful to hide his own smile. The temperature had dropped enough that he wanted his clothes, now. By the time he’d tugged on his pants and found his shirt discarded in the hallway, Cas was in and out of the bathroom.

Cas stopped him as he went for his own turn. “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“When you’re done in there…don’t forget to _shake it off_.”

“I hate you.”

“What about breakfast for dinner?”

“…I no longer hate you.”

Breakfast for dinner it was. Dean took on French toast while Cas made eggs and bacon, and soon enough they were sitting at Cas’s table and stuffing their faces. Cas was wearing a clean Depeche Mode shirt, but was otherwise still in his white boxers. “I saw a ‘John and Mary Winchester’ in your ipod,” he said around some toast. “Were they your parents?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, swallowing down bacon with OJ. “You can listen to it later, if you want.”

“I’d like that,” said Cas.

“I might be biased, but they were good.” Dean shrugged and pushed his eggs around with a fork. “They might’ve made it if they’d caught a break, but it probably would’ve been the end of their marriage.”

Cas tilted his head. “What makes you say that?”

“Sammy ever tell you I raised him?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah, he would. But I don’t know really who was raising who, sometimes. We were both kids, you know? My mom and dad were too in love with the music and the lifestyle to have much room for anything else. If they didn’t play so well together, I don’t think they would have had much room for each other, either.” The thought didn’t hurt as much as it used to, Dean was surprised to find. He and Sam were so far beyond that, now. “They were real rebels, though. I’ll give them that.”

“Do you think that might have had something to do with the problems you and Sam had? Not all the stuff from the outside,” Cas added hastily, “or the manipulation your brother suffered. I mean…that you were both in it for the lifestyle?”

“No one wants to be a rock star without wanting the lifestyle, Cas,” Dean said.

“I don’t think the lifestyle is as prevalent as it once was,” Cas disagreed. “Where there’s money and fame there’s excess, but…maybe the lives of all the men and women in your generation, and the one slightly before, perhaps they taught us a valuable lesson. That new ways, better ways could and should be found.”

“Sure, maybe,” said Dean, not sure at all.

“Think about it,” Cas encouraged. “Big Music has a whole stable of producers and top of the line equipment and studio musicians and song writers. Managers and designers and marketers. If they choose to put their whole weight behind you, you’ll skyrocket in no time. But what do you get in return? A ton of people telling you what to do and a penny on the dollar of the profits. So it’s great if you don’t have other options, or if you want that lifestyle so badly. But if you don’t want that lifestyle, and you _do_ have other options…”

“You’d still need a good studio, though, to record things.”

“Do you? I’m sure Ash has ProTools, so there’s your software. Get a laptop and some dynamic mics. A good producer,” he gestured at himself, “and the right kind of publicity, and you have yourself…maybe not a best-selling album, but one that sells decently enough. Et voila, a loyal following and as a bonus you keep all the profits.”

Dean looked down at his plate, not sure how much he agreed. It couldn’t possibly be that easy.

Cas stood up, holding his empty plate in one hand, and reached with the other toward Dean sitting across the table, and gently propped up his chin, his thumb lightly chasing the corner of his mouth as his grin faded. “I’ll clean up here,” he said. “Go grab the headphones and my ipod. It’s your turn to snoop, if you like. I’ll meet you back at the couch.” He drew back, the tips of his fingers lingering until the last possible moment.

When Cas turned his back to put the dishes in the sink, Dean traced the ghost of his touch, unsettled, but not sure why. He pushed it out of his mind and shoved back his chair. Then he stood, but halfway back to the bedroom he paused. “Which ipod? You have like ten.”

“I do not have ten,” Cas retorted, still washing the dishes. “And whichever one you want.”

Dean stood there a moment longer, watching the movement of his back and shoulders. Then he shook his head.

It was fully dark outside, now (thank god he didn’t have to work tonight), but they’d left the light on in the bedroom. It was easy enough to rescue the headphones and his own ipod. Neither of them had locked it, so the screen popped on at his touch. He scrolled a little bit, reading all the artists’ names. The wave of melancholy washed over him at the sight of his parents’ names and he sighed, locking the player and tucking it back in his pocket. He opened the bedside drawer and picked out the largest ipod, a silver one, figuring it would have the most music. Wandering back into the main area of the little house, he stretched out along the length of the couch and started browsing while Cas finished up. He had to admit that Cas’s selection was a lot more eclectic, and not just in genre, but time period and, based on names, country of origin. Dean didn’t even recognize half of what was in there, but what he _did_ recognize didn’t reveal to him any kind of pattern or reason to why certain songs ended up on this ipod, on not others.

The water shut off in the kitchen, and then Cas walked the few steps over to the couch. Dean lifted his legs, intended to set them on the ground, but Cas caught them in mid-air and sat down, pulling Dean’s legs onto his lap as easy as pie. “Found something?” Cas asked, putting on his white headphones.

Dean hid his blush by keeping his eyes on the ipod, and shook his head. He kept scrolling up and down, but he didn’t really have a hankering for anything, and the thought of taking the energy to listen to something new was suddenly exhausting.

After another minute of this Cas plucked the ipod out of his hand. “I’ll choose something.”

“Hey, that’s against the rules!”

“There are no rules,” replied Cas, holding it out of Dean’s reach, and Dean relented. He sat back against the arm rest and sighed, folding his arms under his head. Cas threw him a fond look before rolling his thumb several times around the wheel. “I think you’ll like this one,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it has one of the best races to the finish of any song in modern times. And it seems fitting.” He raised an eyebrow, thumb hovering over the wheel.

Despite himself, Dean was interested. “Alright, go for it.”

Cas pressed play and twisted a little so he could rest an arm on the back of the couch, and have a good angle to look down at Dean. Dean met his gaze, listening to the guitar and tambourine pouring into his ears. After a few bars the lyrics came, only half-sung, in an accented masculine voice.

 _I_ _’ve never been lucky with girls, I confess  
Don_ _’t know who to blame for my lack of success_

“Sounds familiar,” said Dean.

“The Proclaimers,” said Cas. “Scottish band. You probably know them best for ‘I’m Gonna Be’—”

“—500 Miles,” Dean finished with him. “Right. The eighties.”

_But Jean, oh Jean, you let me get lucky with you_

“Dude,” said Dean, who suddenly realized where this was going.

Sure enough, Cas wore a wicked grin and turned down the music just enough so Dean could hear him singing over it.

“The first time I met you it did cross my mind—”

“Oh my god.”

“The next time I saw you there wasn’t the time.  
The third time I saw you I thought that I could—”

Dean covered his face, but Cas immediately dropped the ipod onto Dean’s chest and pulled his hands away.

“The fourth time I met you I knew that I would! Oh Dean! Oh Dean! You let me get lucky with you!”

They both dissolved into laughter, playfully shoving at each other, and Dean forgot all about his troubles.

Later, after they’d both found their way back to Cas’s bed and Dean was pressed up to his back with an arm slung around his waist, Dean turned the day over in his mind. Cas’s soft, sleeping breaths were soothing, but Dean couldn’t sleep. Part of it was his suspicion that spending a day looking into each other’s eyes instead doing anything else like, maybe, fixing a car, had somehow pushed them beyond friends with benefits into maybe-a-relationship-territory. But more than that, he was making Dean think too much, like he always seemed to. About other ways. Possibilities. Dean still couldn’t quite believe him. This time, though…he thought he trusted him enough to take a chance.

***

Sam wasn’t millionaire rich, but he was still worth enough that he didn’t have to work. Eileen worked part-time   at a plant nursery in town, just to keep a hand in, and Sam worked odd jobs as they came up for the farming families around the area, like Dean did sometimes. But Dean banked on the fact that his little brother was home the next morning, and he was.

Sam and Eileen lived in an out of the way house halfway between the Roadhouse and Sioux Falls. It was pretty big, even though it was only the two of them, and Dean sometimes wondered whether they ever planned to add more to their family besides their dog Bones. Sam was in fact out front with the yellow lab when Dean pulled up, tossing around a tennis ball. As soon as the Impala’s rumbling stopped, Bones was off like a shot to the driver’s door. Dean opened it quickly, not interested in cleaning drool off his window. He let the dog jump on him and lick his face instead. “Alright, alright,” he grumbled, unfolding himself from the seat and shutting the door behind him.

Sam ambled up, hands in his pockets. Bones ran back to his dad, galumphed around him, then ran back to Dean. Sam whistled and threw the ball. Bones bounded after it. “Hey, Dean.”

“Heya, Sammy, ah…” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Sweat prickled there; must’ve been close to 90 degrees. “I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking I’m ready to, to let Cas try. Let him produce a bit, I mean.” Bones trotted up to Dean and dropped the drool-soaked ball at his feet. Gross. He kicked it over to his brother.

Sam scooped it up, easy as you please, and tossed it again. “What does that mean, exactly?” he asked. Dean could see him trying to brace himself for disappointment.

“Well, I don’t mean looking for record contracts, that’s for sure. But maybe between your name and his, you know, we could still reach some people. Like we can do shows now and then and sell music, but on our terms. And we let him help us. And we just use the family we got to play on the record, nothing fancy.”

Bones had abandoned the ball, distracted by an interesting smell somewhere to the left of the house. Sam kept his eyes on the dog. “But it’s our music? You and me?”

“You and me, Sammy.”

Sam crossed his arms and ducked his head, hunching his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” said Dean. “I know you want more, but—”

“God, no!” Sam snapped his head up and finally looked at Dean. There were tears in his eyes. “This is what I want. This is all I’ve wanted. I don’t need more, I swear I don’t.”

“Shit,” said Dean, and they reached for each other, meeting halfway. Sam let out half a sob into Dean’s shoulder as they hugged. Dean felt a little teary-eyed himself. “Sorry it took me so long,” he said.

“We’re good, Dean,” said Sam. Bones bounded back up to them, placing his paws on their hips, asking for his own hug. Sam laughed through his tears, but didn’t let go. “We’re good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too many were mentioned to highlight them all, but this chapter's music:
> 
> Rammstein - [Engel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBqcnU5gKAk) [I could not find the album version w/o extraneous stuff, sorry. Good live version, though.]  
> Aretha Franklin - [(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEWuAcMWDLY)  
> Billy Joel - [The Longest Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_XgQhMPeEQ) [music video, to help visualize]  
> Prince - [Kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9tEvfIsDyo) [music video, again for the dancing]  
> Stone Temple Pilots - [Creep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gzT8AoOau1Y)  
> Depeche Mode - [Personal Jesus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VisK8u-Hj0A) [as example]  
> The Proclaimers - [Oh Jean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-603FH__Os)


	5. Nothing Compares 2 U

For the next month, the Roadhouse was in a state of chaos. Whenever the bar was closed to the public, it was still filled with people. Half the staff were going to be on Sam and Dean’s record, after all, with Ash doubling as the audio engineer. Cas had been nervous at first, afraid he’d pushed Dean too far, but after repeated assurances from Dean—and the liberal application of kisses in various corners of the building—let him relax into his element. Ash got a hold of some dynamic mics and Cas knew just where to set them; he coached Billie and Jo and Ash without dictating from on high or implying he knew their instruments better than they did; he even found a cello player from Sioux Falls, a high schooler name Kevin Tran who was allowed to help out as long as his mother Linda was along for the ride, and nothing interfered with his advanced placement classes. It worked out, though, once the kid loosened up and started having fun. Linda and Ellen, to their surprise more than anyone else’s, became fast friends.

Most of all, Cas knew how to collaborate. He listened to Sam and Dean’s music, asked about it, dug deep. He made suggestions, but only really stood his ground when he was sure he was in the right while still, somehow, being respectful of their work. As songs were chosen or discarded, reworked and rerecorded, Cas tended to their album like a garden: patient, hardworking, and basking in the utter delight of watching it grow. The three of them  made a good team.

All in all, the more Dean watched Cas, the more he was sure he wasn’t wrong about that…maybe-a-relationship thing, either. And if one night he slipped a mixtape into Cas’s back pocket, well, no one else had to know.

When the album was finally recorded and everyone was happy with it and the beer was flowing—pop, for Kevin—they scheduled a live show at the Roadhouse to kick off the publicity. They did their best advertising around town and utilizing social media. Little by little, they tried to get the word out: Sam Winchester was making a music again, and he was bringing his brother with him.

There was one last thing Cas told them he needed to do: take a drive.

***

The house, situated in an affluent suburb of Minneapolis, was smaller than Cas had expected, but still large enough. He supposed that opulence had never been her style.

He rang the doorbell. It reverberated into the house, giving the odd feeling it was empty. Had Cas gotten the time wrong? He checked his watch—he was punctual, if slightly early.

After a minute he was about to hit the bell again when he heard feet stamping in the hallway. He positioned himself so he could be seen through the door’s peephole and sure enough, there was a considered pause before he heard the deadbolt go and the lock slide open.

The door swung wide. “So it’s really you.”

“Hello, Claire,” Cas said.

***

The house where the women of Wayward lived was messy, but thankfully not dirty. It was the mess of young adults, jackets and the like strewn here and there, but no evidence of bacchanalia or any other behavior that would have Cas worried. Not that he necessarily had the right to worry over Claire and her bandmates, but she _had_ been his charge at one time, had fought hard to get her out from under Garrison, and that was the sort of habit that was hard to break.

“You seem to be doing well,” Cas said.

Claire shrugged. Her hair was very long now, just as blonde, a single small braid woven on one side of her head. “We do alright,” she said. An understatement: their last record had bone platinum. She led him deeper into the house, where he could hear music going. Not live music, but a good sound system, certainly. They turned a corner into a wide den, with a large black lounge set with deep cushions, where three other girls were sprawled. He’d never met them before, but he recognized them from having kept up with Claire’s career: Alex, Wayward’s bassist; Kaia, whose body language was surprisingly meek and unassuming for someone who went wild behind a drumkit; and the youngest band member, Patience, who was a virtuoso on the guitar.

Claire didn’t stop. “Guys, this is Cas. Cas, the band,” she said, headed down the hallway.

“Hello,” said Patience curiously, though the other two gave him wary, calculating looks.

“Pleased to meet you,” he responded, though didn’t stop in order not to lose Claire.

They ended up going down the stairs at the end of the hallway and into a basement that had been refurnished into a home recording studio. Claire plopped herself down in one of the chairs behind the sound boards, and Cas sat down in another.

“What do you want?” said Claire, though it wasn’t quite as biting as it could have been.

“I have a couple of musicians that need a leg up. I thought you could help.”

“So? Go talk to your old buddies at Garrison.”

“I think you know exactly why I no longer have ‘old buddies’ at Garrison.”

“Fine,” she said. She leaned back in her chair, propped an arm on the boards, and slung an ankle across her knee. “What do your new musicians have to do with me?”

“Not quite new,” he corrected. “It’s—will you keep this to yourself, even if you don’t agree to help me?”

He could see he’d piqued her interest. She nodded.

“It’s Sam Winchester, and his brother Dean.”

“Sam Winchester? But I’m pretty sure he didn’t have a brother in the band. Wait,” she interrupted herself, sitting up and slipping her phone out of her black skinny jeans. “This isn’t that surprise concert that’s going viral, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something outside Sioux Falls?” She tapped away at her phone, and then flipped it around for Cas to see. Sure enough, it was a digital poster for the concert at the Roadhouse. “I mean, it probably hasn’t reached far out of the music bubble, but you know.”

“I had no idea it went viral.”

“What planet do you live on, Castiel?”

“Cas, please. And I don’t use social media.”

“Some music mogul you are.”

“That’s the whole point, Claire,” said Cas. “I’m not a music mogul, and have no desire to be. But I know good music, and that hasn’t changed.”

She shut off her phone and dropped it onto the edge of the sound board. “Still not seeing where you want to go with this. What do you need me for?”

“Because you made it,” said Cas. “You understand the current musical climate. You have a good head on your shoulders, good people behind you who know how to handle the PR and all that. You made it well enough to not have to sign a contract with another label once your last record was done and that is what I need.”

“My money?”

“Hardly,” Cas said. “Your followers and your knowledge on how to lead them.”

“You’re shitting me,” she said, uncrossing her legs and letting her combat boot thump to the ground. “You want free PR.”

“Yes.”

“And my studio?”

“Their album is already done.”

“My staff?”

“I can take care of much of it, but I will likely need their advice.”

“You’ve got some damn balls.” The chairs were on rollers, and she rolled to face the sound board, crossing her arms onto the desk in front of it, shoulders in a tense line.

“You can say no, of course,” Cas said, gently. “This was a proposal, nothing more.”

He saw her jaw clench. After another moment, she took a finger, capped with black nail polish, and tapped her phone back on. The poster was still on the screen. Then she shut it off again. “What kind of PR are you looking for?”

“The Winchesters brushed too close to the kind of fame that destroys. They’re not looking to rival Beyoncé or get nominated for Grammys. Sam has enough money to live the way he does now for a lifetime, more than a lifetime, and Dean supports himself well enough. They wouldn’t mind the extra money, of course, so they could spend time more time on the craft, but…”

Claire smiled, small and sad, still not looking at Cas. “But they just want to make music.”

“Exactly.” Cas took out the flash drive that had been burning a hole in his trenchcoat pocket. He stood, and set it near her elbow. “This is the album we made. If you like it, come to the concert with the girls, free of charge. Meet the guys, and the rest of the band, and if you end up enjoying the show…we’d like the help of you, your band, and your staff—particularly Jody and Donna, if they’re willing, and maybe Charlie, though Ash is already setting up a website—to talk to us about what we’d really need.”

“And then?”

“And then, they’d release the album for peanuts online and no middle man.”

Claire nodded to herself. “You want me to tweet out the link or something as a suggestion when it’s ready?”

“If you like.”

“And that’s all?” She looked up, sharp eyes measuring his every movement.

“That’s all,” he said.

She looked a moment longer. “I’ll listen to it,” she said at last.

“Thank you.”

She shrugged and picked up the little thing, popping it open and closed again. “You know your way out?”

“I’ll manage.”

***

“Wow,” said Sam.

“You guys are awesome,” agreed Dean.

The crowd in the Roadhouse, packed beyond capacity, roared their agreement. There was a wide mix of people, some Roadhouse regulars but tons of new faces from near and far. The cars out front, Cas knew, had spilled over into the surrounding grass and the Roadhouse had already run out of three of their signature brews. It was gratifying to see, though the four faces he’d been scanning four had yet to appear. Still Cas could only smile, because not only was the crowd enjoying themselves, but the brothers were really enjoying it, too.

Sam and Dean continued their banter and as the crowd laughed, the kitchen door shoved into Cas’s back. He shifted as much as he could in the press of people to find Ellen beckoning him inside.

“You know these people?” she asked, jerking her thumb over her should toward the hallway. “Made a hell of a racket knocking out back.”

“Couldn’t get past the crowd from the front,” said Claire.

Cas grinned at the girls. Patience waved a hello and Alex and Kaia nodded at him. “We can squeeze in this way.” He went first back through the door, and with judicious application of his shoulders made just enough room for Wayward to sneak after him.

Sam was covering his mic and  leaned over to say something to Dean, who covered his own to respond. Shouts and whistles: good-natured goading from the crowd. Sam said something that made Dean roll his eyes, but the younger brother must have thought he’d won whatever discussion they were having, because he said, “The band needs a little break.”

Dean shook his head at Sam, but uncovered his own mic. “Okay if I do a little acoustic cover for you guys?”

The crowd cheered obligingly. Sam and the others jumped into action, and Ash produced an acoustic guitar from seemingly nowhere; with Kevin adding to the mess onstage, there was barely room to move. Dean sat on an amp, adjusting his mic to a better height. “I think some of you here tonight may be from Minnesota,” he said. A good fraction of the crowd cheered and hooted. “So I thought maybe I could play a little Prince.” Cas shivered in anticipation. Dean knew how much he loved Prince. The crowd enthusiastically voiced their own approval, and Cas clapped with them. Sam slapped Dean on the shoulder before fading back into the shadows, and all at once Dean was alone onstage, for the first time in many years.

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days…” he sang. The crowd swelled into an endless moment of ecstasy as they recognized the song, then almost immediately quieted down to listen. Cellphones and the odd lighter popped up as the song continued, dotting the dark bar like stars. Their own tiny galaxy in the middle of nowhere.

“Since you took your love away  
I go out every night and sleep all day  
Since you took your love away…”

Dean’s version was slow, quiet, stripping the song down to its bare, broken bones.

  
“But nothing  
I said nothing can take away these blues  
'Cause nothing compares  
Nothing compares to you…”

Dean took a breath and looked up and around, unerringly falling on Cas.

“I could put my arms around any boy I choose,  
But they’d only remind me of you…”

Cas caught his breath—hardly anyone could have missed the pronoun switch. Leave it to Dean to go all out for his first real concert in decades, and his first solo song, a Prince cover and acoustic, outing himself, giving all of himself to the world, and _meaning_ it.

He felt someone punch his arm and ripped his gaze away only when Dean started addressing the rest of the room again. Claire was at Cas’s shoulder. “That for you?”

“Yes,” said Cas, some light inside him growing, swelling, until he felt he might burst with it.

An answering grin grew on Claire’s face, some of that gleeful little girl peeking through her rough-and-tumble façade. “Niiice,” she teased him. Then she put an arm around Kaia, giving her a kiss on the cheek. When Claire saw him watching out of the corner of her eye, she winked, and Cas knew. Wayward would help them.

Somehow, impossibly, he felt lighter than before.

He floated through the rest of the song, which got a rousing round of applause. The rest of the concert went just as well, the crowd screaming for an encore. When at last they were allowed to get offstage, Cas, Jesse, and Cesar made sure there was a path for them all to get back into the kitchen.

Once the door was closed behind them, Cas pulled Dean aside.

“Was it good?” Dean asked him. “Why do I recognize that blonde? Do you think the way we changed—”

Cas interrupted him. “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for the song.”

“Oh—” Dean blushed. “Yeah, of course. Ah. Um.”

“And yes,” Cas said. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris Cornell's cover of Prince - [Nothing Compares 2 U](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IuUDRU9-HRk) [Live video.]
> 
> To Chris Cornell, Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley, Dolores O'Riordan, Shannon Hoon, and Scott Weiland; Chester Bennington and Chi Cheng; Prince, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and the rock'n'roll artists from every generation who left us too soon, by accident or otherwise. You showed us all how to live.
> 
> (And also to anyone who was as utterly messed up by the 2018 _A Star is Born_ as I was. I feel you.)
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


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